Paranoia
by titanicavatar
Summary: With Moriarty back on his toes, Sherlock reaches out to Molly Hooper for help. But Molly cannot afford to see him anymore, for she has begun to receive terrible phone calls from a stranger who could tear their world apart.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

* * *

It is one odd morning for Sherlock Holmes. He sits at one corner of the laboratory testing the samples. "Hmm, salicylaldehyde, maybe," he thinks. The smell does help a bit to identify. His sharp eyes delve into the microscope. This case of the deranged butler is going to be a failure, he can sense it.

Only if he could've got some help.

An inexplicable guilty lump arises in his throat at the thought. It just _doesn't_ go, however hard he tries to push through. He is hungry. He can do with some fish and chips right now. Oh. Every random thought is followed up by another, reverting his mind to what happened one year ago – the memory he had tried to shove into some deep dark corner of his mind, quite unsuccessfully. For once in his life, he feels _sick_ of deduction.

"How's it going?" he hears a fluttering female voice beside. The voice that once used to be a wee bit nervous and awkward around him. Not so much lately. It was Molly Hooper. Molly.

She walks up to him. She can be really clumsy at times, thinks Sherlock, as he tries to cover up a chuckle just escaped with some showy coughing. "Fine," he murmurs, never bothering to look up from the microscope but with no sarcasm whatsoever.

She is staring expectantly at him, waiting for him to, maybe, comment some more over the work. He is frustrated with this particular compound; he is stuck with this for one long wasteful hour and now feels the dire need to tell her that its way too complex for him to get through with, but then she'll make a you-are-a-graduate-chemist-why-can't-you-work-it-out face. He chuckles again. As if that whole line will shatter his reputation for a lifetime. It's her turn to speak. Was she even nearby? The glossy tiles cannot catch her reflection. Something rumbles inside his stomach. Something is wrong with him. This socially inept, high-functioning sociopath is hungry. And _distracted_.

But then, conversation is never their area.

"Everyday isn't quite my day," he speaks in a wayward tone; marks it as a decent conversation starter. It was true, though. He wasn't going through a very good spell. She doesn't reply. It makes him all the more awkward. He is unnerved, unmoving, and unable to concentrate. He wonders. Why can't she see through him this time? Why can't she figure out how immeasurably sad he is? Or why can't she simply tell him off for so blatantly ignoring her?

His left hand twitches a bit. Paranoia. His jaw stiffens. There have been regular hallucinations. It's the effect of the drugs. Sherlock frantically hopes she didn't notice. He cannot afford to stand that blazing expression on her face again. Wide, doleful eyes piercing through him. The anger and the air of betrayal that his deed would've induced over again.

"You know, you can ask for my help anytime," she says finally. Though she sounds a bit lost. And foreign. There is a sense of déjà vu surrounding her words.

"Molly," his free hand clasps some of the untested samples lying higgledy-piggledy by the microscope, "Can you just take them to –"

He looks up as he says. And stops midway.

It is a trick. A magic trick. The cheap, dirty magic trick his mind has played on him again. She isn't there. She cannot be. Not anymore. He has just been blabbing to himself all this time. Sherlock feels as if his insides are corroded with acid. With one deep long sigh, he tries to pull himself back into the work again. It doesn't help much. The chemicals throw in a neon reflection on the glossy tiles as and when the fluorescent light hits them. Everything inside that _wretched_ lab reminds him of the same.

Molly Hooper. Molly.

* * *

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

It was twenty-five years ago. It had rained so hard that day. Water drops splattered around and ricocheted off the window panes of the red bricked country house they lived in. He sat at one extreme corner of the sofa, huddled up, his gaze unwavering and intent upon the porcelain vase on the centre table in front of him, as he tried to decipher the logic behind the caricature etched upon it. His thoughts were muddled.

Mycroft sat at the other extremity, bulging his eyes and throwing Sherlock exasperated glances. He sat as if repelled by the magnet that Sherlock was, testifying their not-so-warm relationship. Perhaps he was wondering whether what he just said would be quoted down in history. Bored and tired of the pitter-patter outside, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to his brother, "Get a grip, Sherlock."

"I never lost a grip."

"Why do mummy and daddy keep saying he ran away? I hope you know he died…"

"I do."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. They were talking about Redbeard – a medium sized, brown terrier that used to sleep beneath his bed. Which looked up at him with happy, playful, and lately tired but unaccusing eyes. Which sometimes curled at his feet lovingly (Sherlock didn't quite understand the word; maybe it was just the normal behavioral characteristics of a regular-sized pet dog with an odd affinity towards the youngest member of the family). Sherlock loved to – liked to stroke his head.

"I told you not to get involved," Mycroft commented in his usual know-it-all, big brother tone.

"I'm not moved," said the ten-year-old Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on the vase.

"Oh Sherlock, you've always been such a stupid little boy," sighed Mycroft; not yet a tinge of concern has surfaced on his face. "Caring is _not_ an advantage. It never is."

* * *

John saunters into 221B in the afternoon. He walks up the stairs with his typical, thumping, heavy steps. He reaches the doorway and pants for breath. Sherlock remains in his chair, unmoving as ever, his fingers tangled together and chin resting upon them, deep in thought. He shoots a short glance at John, and then slumps back to staring at the ceiling. John's brow twitches; he is slightly aghast for some reason.

John looks pretty exhausted, observes Sherlock. He has a bouquet of petunias and wild flowers in one hand, he has shaved just before coming, he just had tea alone in some local café, and his somewhat ruffled military cut hair indicates he was involved in a brawl in the way, most probably with a pickpocket.

"You're still in your housecoat." John says it as some sort of a semi-question and semi-remark.

"As you can see."

"So you bloody get dressed up. We need to reach there before it gets dark, and if we –"

"Where?"

John is stunned. He opens his mouth to speak but it seems Sherlock's words were such base treachery that they've rendered him momentarily speechless. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat and speaks in a low dark voice, "Don't act as if you don't know."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"I'm not getting this, Sherlock. Doesn't she mean _anything _to you?"

An invisible rusty knife buries deep into Sherlock's chest. He spares another glance at john, his face completely devoid of emotion. John raises his eyebrows, "So?"

Sherlock doesn't know. He is befuddled, but he never lets it show. He feels the sentiment – an angry monster – roaring outside, waiting for admission. But he can't let it in, as it would ruin and ravage the bleak, cold, indestructible world of logic he has built inside his mind. He travels further into his mind's eye – towards that particular black-stoned grave in the old cemetery in southern London… the monster in his chest purrs. But he just can't let it in. He is daunted. Maybe even scared.

"I – I can't."

"Why?"

"You heard me."

"I'm asking why."

"I'm not obliged to reply."

"Sherlock, what the –" John falls short again of apt words, or more appropriately, apt swear words. He raises his eyebrows and flails his arms with the urgency of a maniac, in disbelief, maybe even disgust. "How could you not care, she _died_ for you! But oh wait who am I talking to," he dramatically lowers his voice again; "you're a bloody psychopath! Why would you bloody care?!"

The next thing Sherlock hears is John's hurried thumping steps down the creaky wooden staircase, followed by a loud slam of the door. He rises from his couch and concernedly peeks out of the window. John is trudging disappointedly down the pavement, hailing cabs. The bouquet of wild flowers has almost fallen apart. He must've repelled John, he thinks. He has outdone himself this time.

Sentiment hits him like a blow in the gut, sucks the air out of him. The sky is sunny. Just a dash of grey towards the north. Unlikely to rain anytime soon. Sherlock watches the dust dancing in the light which has pushed its way through the glass pane. He has never observed before the melancholic stillness of the place – so beautiful and yet so tragic – always a self portrayal of the lonely miserable man living at 221B. He sighs quietly. Adjusts the skull over the mantelpiece and slumps back on the couch, devoid of any enthusiasm.

It has been a year since she left. But John was wrong at one aspect; Sherlock never said he didn't care.

"_All lives are lost. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. It never is."_

* * *

**Hey guys this is apparently my first stab at Sherlock fanfiction ,and obviously Sherlolly. In the next chapter, I 'm gonna delve into what happened one year ago. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a review, Sherlockians and Sherlolly worshippers!**


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER ONE

* * *

LATE JUNE, 2014. ONE YEAR AGO

* * *

London is an interesting city. A cesspool of criminal activities, underground mafias, terrorist attacks along with splashes and streaks of heartbreaks and trade deceptions, Sherlock gets it all. Some fascinating, some dull, and others utterly idiotic. He has been traversing through the incredibly irritating 'dull' period for a few weeks now; this recent slew of secretary affairs that even the Scotland Yard can see through, have been so _boring_ that they may just force his wall to take a pounding from his British Army L9A1 again.

He jumps up and down the couch out of inane frustration. Even John remains busy with his to-be-daddy duties these days. "No one comes, no one goes, oh, what woes," he murmurs to himself, rhythmically tapping his fingers on its arm as if listening to a song.

"So you've begun to write poetry," quips Mrs. Hudson as she struts in through the mess, and makes some space on the table to place his morning tea.

"No, I was saying my thoughts aloud and they just _happened_ to rhyme."

Mrs. Hudson leaves with a giggle, even as he begins banging his head against the sofa. Such proportions of boredom are murderous to health. Forget God, even Mrs. Hudson can try and outwit him these days. Sherlock pulls at his hair and grits his teeth. And soon as he hysterically begins bouncing on the couch again, Lestrade calls.

Finally, it's Christmas.

He boards a taxi and picks up a slightly befuddled, taken-aback John Watson in the middle of his shaving process, on the way. Going by his excitement, John would have predicted perhaps the parliament has been bombed again.

"What happened to your oath of not leaving the flat before anything less than a seven?" John wonders while he wipes off the thick lather with a towel.

Sherlock feigns deafness for a while and then recites a nursery rhyme about early rising in his defence.

"And what is it about?" comes the final enquiry from John, as he steps into the taxi.

"We'll know in ten minutes."

John puts on an expression that happened to be a lovechild of amusement and exasperation for the rest of the journey. "Seriously, Sherlock. You went to Buckingham Palace wrapped in a bed sheet!"

* * *

Sherlock and John set off towards that regular crowd of policemen at the crime scene, through a ground so marshy that it can be mistaken for quicksand. The winds are slightly heavier than they were in central London. No wonder it is a bleak, isolated, crime-prone place.

And then there is Lestrade, pacing to and fro and throwing occasional glances at his phone. He catches their sight and heaves a sigh of relief. Almost like a student who came to the exam studying the wrong paper but miraculously finds an answer script beneath his desk. Sherlock smirks.

"What is it about?"

"Murder."

The murder is neat and cold-blooded. Two bodies lay spread-eagled in the backyard of an old ancestral mansion in Cardiff, their throats slit. No sign of struggle, and apparently, no hints of robbery. Local residents they were, as is obvious. A new spell of rain has washed away the foot prints of the killer. Facial resemblance indicates the corpses are closely related, probably mother and son.

"Where's the doctor?" Sherlock asks out loud, fiddling with his phone.

"Doctor?" repeats John.

"Of course, doctor. Who might be a family enemy."

"Well, I thought we're looking for a child psychopath," Lestrade speaks in between, but lowers his voice to an inaudible volume the moment Sherlock raises a sceptic eyebrow.

"Why?" Sherlock asks a rhetorical question, the corners of his lips turning up into a sly, knowing grin, "Because of the shoe?"

He points at a single shoe that lay half sunk in the mud, a few meters beside the body of the dead young man. And even though it appears something of a clue, Lestrade knows better than to open his mouth again. John looks on confusedly.

"Look at the bodies," Sherlock begins, his voice trembling with new found excitement, "Do you really think these intricately cut throats are the works of a child psychopath?"

"I'm still not getting the doctor theory," says John.

"Oh c'mon, this is absolutely transparent," insists Sherlock, "The woman – posh, branded clothes – belongs to a high profile society. But she doesn't splurge, which means she's the earner. Moreover, the lack of a ring –"

"Estranged?" suggests John.

Sherlock returns him an appreciative grin, "You're getting rather good, Dr. Watson. Yes, estranged single mother. The boy – her son – is in late twenties, an indoor worker, possibly a banker. He is stressed, rarely gets a day off, you can tell by the dark circles. And since he didn't get one to go on a jungle safari with his mother, so most probably both of them had an appointment with a doctor, preferably a surgeon, who had a murder in his mind, and who anaesthetized them and skilfully slit their throats, and thus disposed their bodies here. The woman's gold chain – still there, so it's either personal revenge or a vehement show-off."

"And the shoe?"

"Irrelevant. Just to mislead. Apparently, the murderer took too much trouble to smear – sorry, cake the shoe with mud. Slightly oversized. For a kid with large feet. Remember Carl Powers, John?"

"Sure I do," John nods, even as Sherlock hops a couple of steps forth to pick the shoe up.

"Though I would like to have a check," he mutters, "Some why it rings a distant bell."

* * *

Sherlock and John spend the rest of their day at Bart's. While John has a walk or two around the hospital, seemingly bored, occasionally engaging in a chat with Mike Stamford – a plump doctor with a pinkish face and rather pleasant disposition – as and when he bumps into him; Sherlock passes his time sauntering through the morgue and putting the shoe samples on test which seem to take an age to show the results.

"Why exactly are we doing this?" asks John as he leans against a slab, his arms folded and his question bordering less on curiosity and more on irritation.

"Doing what?"

"_This_," John accursedly points at the shoe, "You said it is irrelevant. Then why the hell are we writing a research paper on it?"

"Hmm..."

"You listening?"

Sherlock listens half-heartedly, sometimes with a slight nod, as John keeps badgering him with his 'shoe' complaints, at times even on the verge of cursing it, and adding tantalizing testaments to his opinion that they have indeed been wasting their time here. However, after fifteen minutes of pulling little to no attention from Sherlock, John gives up with a long sigh and sways into an entirely different territory, gushing about his daddy wishes and woes.

"But Mary won't let me see her," he continues with his monologue, lost in his own thoughts and not bothering to know whether Sherlock is listening, "She says sentiment will get the better of me."

"Well, she's not entirely wrong, is she," comes the first response from Sherlock Holmes, as he leans forth with a transfixed stare at the computer screen. It gives a resonating _beep_. The search is complete. And for some reason John cannot decipher, Sherlock is stunned at it, before he resumes muttering.

"I knew this."

"You knew _what_?"

"The shoe, _the shoe_, John! I knew it rang a bell," he holds it up with utmost curiosity, "The outside is deliberately caked with the clayey mud of the backyard, but the inside is the same. A limited edition shoe from Sussex with London mud overlaying it," he says while his index finger travels along the rough edges of that supposed piece of garbage, "I've been so blind, I've been saying it all this time! It doesn't resemble Carl Powers' shoe, John, it _is_ Carl Powers' shoe!"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know."

It is a lie. The day is as clear as a picture. The blasts due to apparent "gas leakage", the phone calls, the riddles – the _great_ game. Only to be ending up with fifteen or so snipers targeted at them. Wasn't a very good day. And it all began with Carl Powers' shoes, solitary objects lying at the centre of the 221C's damp, mouldy living room. Till date Sherlock had assumed the shoes are in police custody.

He knows a bit too well what this might mean. His mind storms past the incidents of the late, halting on a dead stop over the most infamous that occurred two months back – when every screen in England simultaneously flashed with the same message. A splitting image of _that_ man – in a corporate attire, with slicked back hair and a wicked, almost murderous glint in his eyes as he shoved the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger – floats in front of Sherlock's eyes even as his temple produces a sickly throb.

"Hey there, how's the progress?"

The voice momentarily drives out Moriarty from Sherlock's mind. He looks up to find Molly Hooper strutting towards him in her typical, slightly-clumsy gait. She greets him with a hearty smile. Sherlock notices she has plaited her hair to one side. Mrs. Hudson's morning tea performs an immediate back flip inside his stomach and he desperately glances away for some different information to process.

"Oh hey, Molly" grins John, "Are you through with the post mortem reports of the woman and her son?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm here for. Mrs. Gilliam was diagnosed with kidney failure, though her son is in perfect health."

"Mother possibly belongs to a rare blood group, so son goes to the hospital to donate one of his kidneys for her transplant, the surgeon anaesthetizes and kills them both," Sherlock rants to himself, "The question is, why."

"And here they are, found in the backyard of an ancient mansion with Carl Powers' shoe," adds John, "The question is _definitely_ why."

"Also, er – Inspector Lestrade has asked me to inform you that the hospital says that those two persons never reported that day," says Molly.

"Lying? Bought off?" asks John.

"Maybe not," Sherlock speaks in a low dark voice, "Maybe it's _him_."

"Him?" the expression on John's face transitions from confusion to shock to horror to disbelief in a matter of seconds, "You aren't saying it's Moriarty, are you?"

Sherlock doesn't miss the unmistakable chill that runs through Molly's spine at the mention of the name and deliberately makes her looks down at the files in her arms. He knows the reason why, and has felt a nagging need to talk it out with her ever since the broadcast of the_ Moriarty _message.

"But it can't be!" John persists, "I mean, he can't return. Whatever happened two months ago was just a publicity stunt by somebody else. You were convinced it was, Sherlock!"

"As it turns out, I was wrong," he answers nonchalantly.

"Okay, then, I guess I should go now," Molly smiles a slightly disheartened smile, already on her way out.

"Molly, er –"

"Yes?"

Sherlock feels himself grow hot under his raised collar. It is as if he's standing in the middle of an empty stage, the spotlight burning through his skin. He senses her eyes on him, awaiting a reply maybe. Oh crap, he never meant to say it aloud, he thinks; it was all but a Freudian slip of tongue.

"Sherlock?"

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah – um, er – coffee?"

"Yeah, sure, I'll bring you a cuppa."

She leaves. He sighs, colour rising up his face. The great British detective just made himself look like the greatest idiot in the history of Britain. He wanted to talk about Moriarty. _Another_ Freudian slip of tongue. And to think of it all, Moriarty might hang himself off a ceiling if he ever comes to know that Sherlock has replaced him in a conversation with something as insignificant as _coffee_.

Beside him, John is snorting. He feels the ardent desire to try and hide himself behind his raised collar. He grits his teeth. Another snigger from John and he promises himself he will swear off trying to make conversations ever again.

"Stop laughing," he snaps at John, who gets all the more uncontrollable, "nothing funny whatsoever happened."

"Yeah, I know," laughs John, "As you say, I'm the expert on women, so I guess I know a bit too much, right?"

"Then try and stop laughing," Sherlock tries to make it sound like an order but ends it up as a plea, "_For_ _God's sake_."

"Coffee?!"

"What were you saying about Mary?" Sherlock marks his first desperate attempt to change the subject, "You sent her away from town. Why – you were convinced as well it wasn't Moriarty."

"Yeah, I sent her to her sister's. Wait, how did you know –"

"She has a sister?"

"In Birmingham, yes. Not an assassin though – hey, how dare you change the topic! We were talking about coffee!" John smirks in mock protest.

"Enough now, John. What the hell is so _funny_ about coffee?"

"To be honest, Sherlock, for a genius you _can_ be remarkably thick," says John, "Nothing much really. It's just that Sherlock Holmes has finally begun to realize the perks of being a _human_."

* * *

It is evening. The sun is almost down and the sky is a mélange of fiery shades with a streak of purple around the corner. Sherlock thinks the scene of old London buildings from Bart's is truly insignificant and ethereal at the same time, as he descends the staircase to the morgue at the left end of the hall. John has already had a laugh of his lifetime and has left for his apartment. However, Sherlock still has one job unfinished.

He stands behind the door and peeks through the gap at the hinge. Molly is inside, checking the fresh in dead bodies and scribbling something in her notepad. Sherlock has almost reached out to knock when she looks up and makes a sudden turn.

"Oh, hey, Sherlock. Come in."

Sherlock's first impulse at her unannounced turn was to _freeze_, followed by a leap in his heartbeat so abrupt that it might have even killed him. He makes a quick-fire deduction of the room within the next three seconds so as to save himself from committing anything monumentally idiotic again.

"Oh – oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," she says, slightly sheepish, "I completely forgot about your coffee."

"Yeah, oh that – don't bother. I've come – I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay..."

"About Moriarty."

"What about Moriarty?"

Sherlock thinks for a little while. Two months back, when he first saw the distorted voice message with Moriarty's face flashing across the screens, his first panicked thought was of Molly. He remembered what he had told her – that Moriarty slipped up big, at the key point – that the one person he thought didn't matter at all, mattered the most. If the message was from Moriarty indeed, Sherlock realized there on that he had unknowingly thrown her in the pit of fire. For Moriarty won't slip up again.

But then he decided against it. Convinced himself otherwise. Deduced it must be a ruse – there was no proof anyway – just an image, a computerised voice and signature Moriarty drama – it must all be a ruse to stir up trouble under Moriarty's notorious name. And regardless, he said it wasn't possible for anybody to fake blowing their own brains out in front of Sherlock and him not noticing it. Others – John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mycroft – seemed to agree.

And now, as it turns out, he was _wrong_. It seems to be beginning. All over again.

Molly knows that. And she knows that Moriarty knows. She is queasy whenever Moriarty is mentioned, and perhaps a bit scared at the very thought of him. And thus stands Sherlock now, trying to utter one simple line of assurance since ages – whatever happens, he will protect her to the ends of the earth.

"Sherlock? Are you there?" Molly claps before his eyes, "You seem a bit lost."

"I'm – I'm fine."

"You were talking about Moriarty."

"Yes – no, not here. Can we just," he blinks around while searching for words, "I mean, outside – there's a fancy Chinese restaurant two blocks down –"

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry again," she says, her brows screwed together with some genuine concern, "Greg just called me over, and I was just about to dash."

"Greg?"

"Greg –Greg Lestrade?"

"Oh – okay. It's fine. It's absolutely fine. Well, you can only wish his wife doesn't see you," he adds the last sentence with a half-hearted chuckle.

Molly doesn't happen to find it very amusing. "He and his wife got divorced a week back," she speaks in a matter-of-fact tone, "John was there too. I thought you knew."

"Maybe – he told me, I think, I guess I wasn't paying close attention."

"Greg was pretty upset about it, so I couldn't refuse when he asked me out. I happened to stay over last day, it was nothing special, really... we watched a boring DVD... we are just friends – for now, at least – though it seems to be going somewhere – oh, sorry, I must be boring you right away..."

Lestrade has asked her out. She'll be off to his house in a moment and Sherlock is standing in her path right now like a big road blockade. For some reason, her perfectly ordinary, regular-sized sentence feels like a kidney-punch to him. _It's just gratitude_, he tells himself determinedly, _immense gratitude that I need to express through deed and I'm not getting a chance to. That's it, nothing else._

"You can say it to me now," Molly continues, "Nobody's here anyway."

"No, it isn't that important. I'll be off – later then."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You were right, you know. Maybe I never _really_ loved you."

* * *

**Hey, guys, I'm baaack with a new chapter! Please please please review, or I just don't get fueled enough to write ahead! So pleeeeease review...**


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER TWO

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is the wisest man John has ever met, and also the weirdest. And no, right now he isn't talking about him gossiping with skulls, murdering his bedroom wall and breaking into a dangerous military base to investigate a rabbit.

He is talking about the latest chemical defect that happens to have invaded Sherlock's mind. Sherlock Holmes is curious about love. More appropriately, Sherlock Holmes is curious about Molly Hooper.

Curiosity sows all the seeds. John still remembers the first day he had met Mary. He had been frustrated with the multitasking in his clinic - the nurse, Martha, had left for her only son in South America - when a charming lady with bright green eyes placed her handbag on the desk and mistook him for a salesman. John can still have a good laugh about it till this day, and an even better one with Mary embarrassedly blushing at the memory. Mary was smart from the get go. But life is all but better without these silly little faults.

Last day, Sherlock committed a similar fault. The intonation of his request - _the coffee request_ \- sounded tricky. He – sort of – asked Molly out. Molly didn't realize it, and Sherlock chose not to.

When a man cannot properly structure his sentences in front of a woman, John knows what is going on. And when he is a smart-arse like Sherlock, who lives to outwit, he knows the condition is bordering critical.

John yawns and blinks and wearily contorts his face as he climbs out of his bed. He wanders into the veranda, inhales the fresh dewy air and stretches himself. He has been putting on weight again; no major trouble has been on their way since long.

Not until last day.

Agreed, the real deal hasn't been major yet, but Sherlock's foreshadowing hasn't given John a good night's sleep.

John stubbornly refuses to believe it. It cannot be Moriarty. He cannot arrive again, not at this time. Not now, when he has priorities, people to protect...

He walks into the bathroom and leans in front of the mirror. Apprehensive grey eyes look back. He opens the shower and lets himself drown for one moment in an icy blind static. He still refuses to believe. It just cannot be him. Last time Moriarty introduced himself, John ended up wrapped with explosives, a sniper shot away from being blown into pieces. What if this time, he takes in Mary - no, no, he cannot put his imagination to go that far.

But what should he do? Should he bring her back to keep her right under his nose? Or will bringing her back mean he has knowingly put her in the crossfire?

His phone beeps. He comes out of the shower to take it. It's a text from an unknown number.

_To get through, find the other shoe._

Before he recollects what it is about, the screen blinks again.

_Never noticed that rhymed._

It must be Sherlock, he assumes, as he flips the phone back onto his bed. "What gets him so early in the morning these days?"

Nevertheless, the texts work as a wake-up call and he fastens up his usual chores and leaves for the new Scotland Yard headquarters (he could've chosen Baker Street, but being the Robin of the Hat detective for so many years he knows exactly where to find him at what time of the day).

* * *

The Scotland Yard office is in it's usual morning hustle bustle; people speeding up and down the elevators, pushing past him, or sprinting down the stairs into their police cars. He doesn't know a lot of people there - he never had to, and some of them have been really hostile after his affair with The Urban Bloodlust Frenzy - and even after four long years he felt exactly what he used to feel when he first trailed Sherlock to investigate the Pink Lady case, especially when not in his or Lestrade's company - an intruder.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," John turns to find Sally Donovan, the frizzy haired police officer whom he (and maybe everybody) dearly hates, "Freak's just gone out with Inspector Lestrade. Why don't you go have a seat in the visitors' room downstairs?"

John nods, and leaves immediately. These days Sherlock going off on his own has become a regular and pleasant idea, he seethes under his breath, for some _goddamned_ reason he didn't understand. He sighs. Not intending further heart-to-heart with Donovan, he makes his walk relatively fast. Two years on and he hasn't seen the slightest tinge of guilt on the woman's face for driving Sherlock over the edge, literally. John is waiting for the day when he'll lose it for good and punch her too.

He struts towards the randomly arranged chairs in the waiting room and chooses the one beside the AC, even as the chilly gusts of wind hit like tight cold slaps across his face. He covers his face with his palms and shuts his eyes to find some solitude in the crowded room.

"Excuse me, are you John Watson?"

He blinks at the American accent. This time it is a pregnant lady sitting next to him. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear and smiles curiously, "Are you John Watson?"

"Yes, I think I am," John basks in the glory of being recognised, smiling slightly, then wonders whether the lady has mistaken the headquarters for a hospital.

"And you write Sherlock Holmes' blog?"

"Er - a blog about him, actually," John tries to clarify but the wide grin plastered on the woman's face ensures it is in vain.

"Is he available?" she asks, more seriously this time. What John expects to be a fan rant turns into a client inquiry.

"Yeah I guess he is," he mumbles, "Well he's a bit stuck in a case but - yeah, I think he has time for another one. Do you have a case?"

Her face darkens and she stares at her baby bump rather ruefully. "Yes," she says, lost in her thoughts, "It's about me."

"Okay..." John begins with the most comforting word he can find around.

"My husband actually. He worked for a private intelligence agency, or that's what he told me. I've been pregnant for six months now. He came down to London for some undercover work. And he's gone missing now," she rambles on as her eyes slowly begin to brim with tears, "So I came a long way from Chicago in this condition. It was tough, but I had to have an answer!"

"And so you are here...?'

"That's not all," she says, "The only answer I got is just so baffling."

She zips open her purse in lightning speed and pulls out a photograph of the couple, "An officer told me he looks exactly like Norbert Sidney, one of the most wanted men by the Interpol, who was killed in an encounter three months ago."

John casts a careful look at the photograph. It was a burly, pink-faced man in his late forties, with furry fearsome eyebrows, a scruffy beard and small, barely-there eyes. He scrolls through the previous cases in his mind (not as efficiently as Sherlock, but still), and tries to find a dead halt at the man's face, but there is none. Not to mention midway his mind drifted towards wondering why Mary hasn't called him even once since the morning.

"Well, I do think you should meet Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm telling you, Mr. Watson," the woman breaks down sobbing, "My husband is not a criminal. He doesn't have a twin brother within my knowledge. He's in trouble, and the police are just trying to put me off."

John feels a tumult of empathy towards the sniffling woman. She must have taken great pains to do the rushing-around required for such a case. She looks frail and tired, and quite a lot like Mary. "I'm sure Sherlock will be able to help out," he pats on her shoulder awkwardly, not knowing what else he could've done, "Speak of the devil, he is here."

John gets up to his feet and briskly walks towards the main door as soon as he sees Sherlock stomping his way into the hallway with Lestrade. Sherlock's expression is indestructible as ever, though Lestrade is a bit poker faced. Apparently, Sherlock hasn't hit a home run this time.

"So?" John accelerates his pace and hastily joins them to check what the matter is.

The surgeon is dead."

After the whirlwind of a case that the woman has recited, it takes a few whole seconds for John to get back on track. He blames the middle age for his lagging, rather sarcastically. Ah yes, the murders in Cardiff. The woman and her son, and a curious inclusion of what Sherlock claims to be Carl Powers' shoe. The case they were _originally_ upon.

"Self administered poison," says Sherlock, visibly confused in spite of how hard he tries not to let it show.

"The shoe case?"

"Obviously."

"So the surgeon was the suspected murderer, and now he's killed himself. Which means – case is closed?"

Sherlock and Lestrade glance at each other as if John just cracked a very unfunny dirty joke. "Well," begins Lestrade, "the corpse was found beside –"

"Beside two identical bottles, one having a pill and another empty, "Sherlock finishes Lestrade's statement.

"Goodness, _what_?" John is flabbergasted. Wasn't it that case when they first heard of criminal consulting?

"Yes."

"Carl Power's shoe, now bottles of pills – what exactly is going on?"

It's a game," Sherlock mutters darkly, like a mental self note, "It's a nasty game. He will emulate all my older cases; kill a lot of people before he brings himself back."

"It could be anybody," insists John. He seems to be getting a little more than annoyed with the far-fetched Moriarty theory cropping up every time. He agrees Sherlock's theory is plausible even if impossible (however paradoxical that may sound), but it's weird to watch him not even entertain the chance of somebody else doing it. "Don't you think you're getting a little obsessed with a dead man?"

"Or is he?" Sherlock shoots back.

"Why do you think it's Moriarty?!"

"Why do you think it isn't?!"

"Because the only way to get to you is through Moriarty! C'mon Sherlock, it has been two months, and he hasn't struck yet!"

"He's only begun."

"You're just assuming things!"

"And you're getting needlessly hysterical."

"Calm down folks," Lestrade interrupts in between, "Some cases are frustrating –"

"I tend to solve most at a go," scoffs Sherlock.

"Talking of frustrating," John clears his throat, "I've got you a case."

Instead of the usual wiry jumpiness that such news brings in Sherlock, he screws his eyebrows and looks at John as if John has just demanded him both his kidneys. Maybe, John thinks, he has begun to prefer one absolutely frustrating case at a time.

"What, don't look at me like that," says John.

"What made you think I'll be interested in a case, now?"

"I couldn't think of a reason why you wouldn't."

John trails Sherlock as he walks down the stairs out of the building and past the security guards. "Moriarty's back on his toes," he says darkly, his eyes fixed at the concrete, "And I need to brace up."

"Jesus, Sherlock, are you scared?"

"No," Sherlock snaps way too fast and loud, and his negation only confirms it.

"Yes you are," John insists for the last time, "Listen Sherlock, _please_. Help her."

* * *

After three whole long days, plying to John's pleads, Sherlock accepts to at least hear out the case. They are at Baker Street and already half an hour into it. As the lady narrates, John watches Sherlock's expression transition from glib disinterest (which makes John so uncomfortable that he wishes he had rather spent his day devouring cakes at Speedy's) to a crooked knowing smile. By the time she finishes, his smile has turned into a monstrous, blatantly clownish grin.

Before John can wonder what is Sherlock so happy about, Sherlock starts, "Can I have your maiden surname again?"

"Tatou," she squeaks, slightly nervous.

"Okay, Miss Tatou, where are you staying?"

"Warner and Sons, a hotel down Marylebone road. Those fancy types. It's a bit rough on the pocket, but then – "

"Alright, I take the case."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes," the woman cried in a mix of ecstasy and gratitude, "You don't know how much this means –"

"Er, John, won't you escort Miss Tatou out?" he announces in a rather high voice, and digs comfortably into his couch, a taint of that clownish grin still etched across his face. John gets to his feet and rushes to support the pregnant woman at the elbow, before the woman weakly stumbles and turns to speak the final word, "Thank you again, Mr. Holmes. And I'd like you to call me Mrs. Gordon, by the way."

"Evidently."

* * *

When John climbs back the stairs, Sherlock is already trotting to and fro in the smallish area of the living room. As Mrs. Hudson arrives with a teapot, John eases into his own chair, fiddles with his fingers and waits for Sherlock to do the talking.

"Would you like some biscuits?" asks Mrs. Hudson as she settles into the adjacent chair and pours down the tea, "It's been so long, John."

"Um, I just came over day before yesterday."

"Oh, did you?" she giggles, "It seems I've become a little forgetful – oh, Sherlock! That reminds me – Molly came in the morning. She said she had your heart."

John chokes on the tea. "His _what_?" He has a quick glance at Sherlock who was gazing out of the window and probably didn't hear a word.

"Oh no, nothing like that you know. The one he left in the lab," she laughs, her tone gradually inclining towards those women use while gossiping. She points over John's shoulder. He turns to find a deep red organ with its slit aortas and ventricles lying inside a packet on the dining table. John blushes. Horrific choice of words, Mrs. Hudson, he thinks.

"I need some privacy, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, sounding dead serious now.

"But what about your heart –"

"Mrs. Hudson, stop romanticising things and leave! Now!"

Given the fit of giggles Mrs. Hudson leaves with, John is sure he isn't the only one who has noticed the recent developments. However, as soon as she disappears from sight, John puts a straight, back-to-business face, and asks, "So, missing husband as interesting as bottle of pills and dead surgeon?"

"No," Sherlock does an everybody-knows-what-is-going-on smile which gets on John's nerves, "It's even more interesting."

"How can we help her? Care to elaborate?"

"Help?" Sherlock scoffs, "She doesn't need _help_."

"What?"

"She's lying. The whole thing - missing husband, Norbert Sidney doppelganger – is just a big fat lie."

"I - I can't understand. How come?"

"I caught the lying the moment she began. Too much of jerking around, especially of knees and fingers, beads of sweat, lots of unnecessary details."

"Or maybe she was just nervous. Jesus, Sherlock, she's pregnant!"

"No, she isn't. I can make out between real pregnancy and a prosthetic. Moreover, she had no symptoms. Relative ease at walking and sitting. She began stumbling only when I asked you to escort her out. Not a very convincing liar."

John feels rather stirred with all the information thrown at his face sinking in. He furrows his eyebrows and looks at his own roughed-up palms, "How could I never see, I'm a bloody doctor - "

"Oh, you were disillusioned by your daddy dreams, obviously."

"That was scathing."

"Sorry. But try to keep your bubbling sentiment at bay."

"So I just wasted a lot of your time?" John sighs.

"No, not at all, my Dear John," Sherlock's voice all of a sudden becomes such a sinister shade of operatic that it makes John slightly alarmed, "As I've said before, it's only the idiosyncrasies that you so selflessly provide, guide me to the right path."

"Okay..."

"Let's deduce the woman. A liar. A really, really careless one. She told us her maiden surname is Tatou, so obvious French roots here. You can live in a foreign country for a century but you never forget the accent with which you pronounce your own name. When I called her "Miss", it was perfectly acceptable to her – "

"She did correct you in the end," John points out.

"There can be two reasons she didn't do it immediately. Either she doesn't like to be associated with her husband, or she prefers to be an independent entity. Since she corrects me in the end, the latter can't be true. So if she doesn't like being associated with her husband, why would she come down to the other end of the world to search him down?"

"Hmm..." John scratches his chin, "but I don't understand, why a woman would change her name and fake a pregnancy to enquire about a man who doesn't exist, only to confuse him with another man who' dead? I mean, isn't it completely – "

"Pointless! Exactly!" Sherlock bounces back on his couch, excited, "And apparently a lot of pointless stuff has been happening with us lately?"

"What, you can't say it's possibly connected with the shoe and the slit throats and - and the dead surgeon?!"

"No, I possibly can't. But that doesn't eliminate the chance. Remember, John, there is always one man behind all the pointless - and admittedly dangerous - crimes."

"So, how do we know?"

"Put on your jacket. I need to revisit the surgeon's house."

* * *

The surgeon's residence is almost towards the city outskirts. As John hears on the way about the surgeon being a middle-aged thin single man living on his own, he sort of expects the house to be smallish, single-storied and empty, but never expects himself to be exactly right. They traverse through the weeds of the backyard, catching a lot of prying neighbour eyes. While John is slightly befuddled (and irritated) about the backside approach, Sherlock is enjoying himself.

"Sherlock, _why_?"

"I don't want to jump over the hundreds of Olympic hurdles the police have put up at the front gate."

"Oh, you _know_ about the Olympics?" John makes a snarky comment, "That's - that's astonishing. Try and find some space for the solar system too."

"Never concerns me," Sherlock, as usual, doesn't get the sarcasm, "C'mon."

He opens the swaying back door. The stuff from the kitchen - plates, glasses, lots of crockery - lays higgledy piggledy on the floor. The living room gives an impression as if somebody abandoned it midway through packing for a vacation. There is a noticeable dump of paper under the drawer, in the right corner of the room.

"Check those papers," Sherlock directs him, while he himself tiptoes to the bedroom.

John searches through the dump. It is almost of vain – medical prescriptions, medicine orders - even a love letter - but nothing in connection with the pregnant lady. The whole idea is probably even more far-fetched than Moriarty rising from his ashes, but John knows better than to make Sherlock see sense.

"John!" comes a distant call from the bedroom. John trails along the voice and finds Sherlock kneeling beside the bedside lamp, holding a - a card.

"It's a card." John raises an eyebrow.

"An invitation card," Sherlock whispers, "Look." John bends down and furrows his eyebrows as Sherlock holds it against the light.

_**Warner and Sons heartily invite you to the sizzling evening gala on 3rd July, 2014 from 8:00 pm. Gentlemen, give the love of your life her best night out.**_

_**Manager**_

_**Warner and Sons**_

_**Marylebone, London**_

_**_**Card admits two**_ **_

"It's the same hotel," John remarks, even as Sherlock shoves the card into the inside pocket of his coat. "Sherlock, you can't take stuff out of a dead man's house like that!"

"The reason I chose the back door," Sherlock is least bothered about the repercussions, "We need to go there. At least it'll give us an excuse to sneak into the woman's hotel room. It's hard to barge in otherwise."

"Yeah, that makes a bit sense, but –"

"But we can't go together," Sherlock rambles to himself, "We _can't_ possibly go –"

"Yeah, I don't want to fire up the rumours Mrs. Hudson started –"

"It's a public party. There's a chance we'll be recognised, even under disguise –"

"Yeah, actually I wasn't thinking along that line, but yeah, that's right – "

"And I need somebody else."

John scoffs. It is just an enormously twisted way of saying he _needs_ Molly Hooper. Again.

* * *

**I'm back, folks, after a trillion years. Just crash-landed from space. Which century is going on - I've no fricking idea.**

**Yes, I've been that busy. A hell lot of thanks goes to my PC, which crashed twice while writing this chapter. But somehow I made it. It's a build-up chapter, and lots of Sherllolly goodness comes in the next one. Please bear with me, and review. *puppy face***


	4. Chapter 4

**I am a slow writer. So maybe out of some sort of self-indulgence I rushed up this chapter. Consequently, it ended up as sub-standard ( even by my standards which is already average). So I have reworked on this chapter. Maybe most of you won't even notice the differences, it is done purely for self satisfaction. Even though I did add some new stuff towards the end...**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

* * *

Molly Hooper is nervous. Very nervous. Unexplainably nervous.

As soon as she returns from work, she slams close the door and falls flat on her face on the bed, tiredly. Is she even sure this isn't a joke? She has often been the butt of jokes, then why not this time? She sighs. Why else will Sherlock Holmes invite Molly Hooper to a party as a partner? Why couldn't he just have called up that bridesmaid Janine whom he even had an affair with?

Sherlock ruins her. Always. He always burdens her mind with a massive belief that something is incomplete about her, without him. And as soon as those bulbous hopes rise, he calls it off and smashes them, tells up straight he will never be hers.

So is it going to be an insulting joke? She doesn't know. But she is willing to take the risk. After all, this is about Sherlock Holmes and she knows she's his perfect get-out-of-jail-free card.

Molly wonders what Sherlock saw in Janine. She had read a lot about them in the papers, especially during Sherlock's stay in the hospital. She might hate her with all her heart, but she does accept that Janine is pretty. Pretty in its truest definition. She has flowing black hair, dark sensuous eyes, full lips and witty antics. She snuggled up with Sherlock all through the wedding and chose somebody else to dance with. Even though that was quite rude and something Molly would have never approved of, Janine just showed Sherlock he _can_ be rejected.

Molly bounces up and looks into the mirror. At her own face. It is so – _so ordinary_. There are a few age lines along the corners of her eyes, her lips are too thin, and her cheeks are sunken. There is nothing special about her eyes - they are oh-so-dull, and brown - cockroach brown. Her voice is squeaky not sexy. Her body is far from perfect - her breasts are too small, she is just a skeleton wrapped with skin.

She thinks Sherlock likes really attractive women. Even Janine is of a dismissively "plain" standard for him. No wonder Sherlock thinks of Molly as just a _wallpaper_.

It is already evening. The sky is a deep shade of Prussian blue. Discarding her wayward thoughts, she strolls into the bathroom for a wash. She ought to begin getting ready by now.

Molly opens her wardrobe and casts a disheartened look at her array of dresses, with bright scarves and striped jumpers often making cameos. She doesn't want to give her best shot, because if she does - if she tries or even thinks of trying - she knows she will end up bracing for the utter disaster that was the Christmas night two years ago. "Take it easy," she orders herself coolly.

Taking things easy is ever _so _hard. After an hour, she is still stuck between a red lace formal and a sleeveless white skater dress. Thinking red will be too flashy for her to handle (she wore this only once, to a pub with Tom, and they ended up having their first sex) and might fire up Sherlock's mindless deductions, she chooses white. Gives a rest to the accessories, and lets her hair down straight and unbarred. A little kohl on the eyes and she is done.

She casts a full final glance at the mirror. She looks quite – okay, she thinks. Nowhere like Janine, though. Nowhere like how the dashing detective's party date should look.

Molly scrolls through Sherlock's texts. "Where was I supposed to go – yes, Marylebone," she shoves back the phone and makes the dash for a taxi. Her heart gives a massive throb at the idea of meeting Sherlock at a public place in altogether different attire. "God, no deductions please," she mumbles desperately to herself as she heads out.

* * *

It takes about half an hour to reach the hotel. She pays the taxi fare and looks around nervously. The hotel is posh – really posh – and she wonders if she even looks acceptable enough to gain entry. With Sherlock being nowhere at sight, she stands at the edge of the pavement, waiting. The sky is cloudy and already grumbling; and she hopes by the time Sherlock arrives, she doesn't begin resembling a wet cat.

Just then, a tall bearded man roughly brushes past her. "Ready to go?" he whispers dangerously.

Molly's first reaction is to jump in alarm, but then she realizes she knows the voice far too well to be mistaken. "Sherlock." She turns at him to have a full look, "What have you done to your face?"

He looks completely different at first glance. On second, Molly can figure out he has hardly done much disguise – he has just added a false and rather tacky beard and made his eyebrows look effectively different. The rest is familiar – the shirt is of colour cream, perhaps the one he had worn at the wedding, the suit too is the same, sans the flower and the three-folded handkerchief.

"You recognised," he remarks, returning an appreciative grin which is hard to figure out amidst the beard.

"Your voice," she says.

"I accented it a bit though."

"Maybe, I never noticed," she smiles ("What an idiotic thing to do," she groans to herself, right the next moment). Well, she thinks, she couldn't have told him the accent doesn't matter; the frequencies of his voice accelerate the engines of her heart, however hilariously corny that may sound. Sherlock glimpses at his wrist watch and types up something on his phone. He never really does so much as glance at what she is wearing. Perhaps it is for the best. She sighs.

"Let's go," he says urgently, and almost mechanically gestures her to hold his hand, as they stroll past the gate into the main hall.

The main hall gives way to the party hall. The party hall is dark and retro-themed, as if it is a clubhouse brought out straight from the 80s. People are still sitting around, introducing each other, lest a few odd couples on the barren dance floor, waltzing to the soft music. Apparently, the party hasn't reached its peak yet. Sherlock leads her to one of the raised seats near the bar table. He is still looking here and there, like somebody does while waiting at an airport, murmuring to himself what he calls "mental notes". Molly thinks it's time to start a _decent_ conversation lest her party ends in a mere half an hour. Or _any_ conversation.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"No offence, but can you tell me why have you taken so much "effort" to dress up for this party?"

He draws his face close and whispers into her ear. "We are undercover." Molly gasps at the warm breath hitting her face. At the same time, her heart sinks. So that's _why_.

"Okay... elaborate?"

Sherlock tells her about the pregnant woman under an alias and her apparent connection to the chain murders. His face lights up with a frankly jarring excitement as he tells the story. "And so I need to go to the depths of this woman's fishy tale, but for now sneaking into her room will suffice," he says.

"How?"

"Let's wait for her. I'm guessing she'll come around." Sherlock gives a fleeting glance across the hall, before he sets his eyes at Molly for the first time. His lips twist into a crooked, yet sincere smile, "Would you like to dance?"

"Dance – _what_?" Molly is flabbergasted. Sherlock and _dance?_!

"Yes? Do you mind?" he asks earnestly, "We have to pass the time somehow, don't we?" he reasons like he's debating some nuclear bombing issue in the parliament. God, thinks Molly, his social skills are downright pitiable. She fights hard to keep a straight face. They are about to do some _undercover_ dancing. Her smirk leaks at the thought.

As they step into the dance floor, he gently holds her hand and grabs her waist, while she places the other hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's hand must be a microwave oven, as she senses the part of her waist literally burning. Ah, today's a hot, _hot_ day. Nervously, she makes sure not to step on him, as they sway with the music. During the process, she trips on her heels twice. "Jusssst. Relax." She tells herself.

"I should've practised some steps beforehand," she says, in an odd combination of serious and joking. But Sherlock isn't listening.

"You look ... well, um – very good," he stutters out a compliment.

"Bewitching," Molly laughs, mocking herself. He is just – just being polite. But when has Sherlock Holmes ever cared about being polite? Maybe he wants something. A dead body perhaps? Maybe he needs a reminding that they aren't in lab. Regardless, she braces up with a comment too. "You look... well, funny."

"Funny?"

"I'd have given a more honest opinion but I can hardly figure out your face amidst these bushy stickers."

"Bushy stickers, eh?" He renders a small laugh. "It was hard work. They itch a lot."

Molly is slightly taken aback. For a fleeting nano second, it seems to her that she is making Sherlock nervous too. She can see it in his eyes; the thought throws in an abrupt rush of adrenalin and makes her want to fist punch in the air out of happiness. But then, she thinks, conversation is somewhat of a challenge for every sociopath. To keep the upper hand, however, the _key_ is to continue talking.

"But you are a fairly great dancer," she says, "I never knew you danced."

"I sorta... like to dance."

"Very sociopathic."

"Well, try me."

Molly's stomach drops with Sherlock's slight pun-sounding statement, which she is sure isn't intended. Not to mention this is the third time she has stepped on him.

"Sorry," she giggles sheepishly.

"Your dancing skills are very – er –"

"Horrendous?"

"Unconventional" Sherlock says with a slight chuckle, "I was going to say _unconventional_."

"What is that even supposed to mean?"

"Who knows," he scoffs showily, with that thing he does with his eyebrows as a mock gesture.

"You do." She laughs. This is one of the most darned amazing nights she has had in her life. Sherlock is at his informal best with her. He might be as well faking it, faking the friendly affection, the intimacy ... but it doesn't matter. The thing is – he is laughing, not deducing; quipping, not despising. Molly feels elated enough to do a back flip in the air and she is not willing to let this conversation break. Who _cares_ if they are undercover.

"I'd have loved to see you dance at John and Mary's wedding," she blurts out honestly. A split-second later, she is not so sure if that will offend him. Damn. It was a bad idea.

"Yes, I – " Sherlock searches for words as he fixes his gaze at the bartender, "I had got a case."

Molly knows it is a lie. And Sherlock doesn't try too hard to cover it up. And how certain sadness resurfaces on his face with such immaculate ease. She feels guilty. She shouldn't have brought this up. She touched the wrong nerve. The ear-wide grin abandons her face too. This thing about Sherlock and John has probably been the most delicate and uncomfortable topic to do rounds lately. John doesn't recognise it, Sherlock doesn't want to.

That day at Greg's, they were just hovering around this subject. Molly told Greg she is dead sure that Sherlock misses John. She clarified what she meant – it wasn't as if they didn't go out for cases anymore – but now that Mary has entered into the equation, _something_ has changed. Lestrade made a "gay" wisecrack, and she glared. But then she changed the topic, and Greg never minded; after all, it wasn't him who watched Sherlock walking out of the wedding hall, heartbroken. It was logical to assume that a sociopath like him left the wedding because he found the celebrations and dancing decidedly moronic (back then she didn't even know his teensy little secret about dancing), but then Molly _saw _him. She saw it in his eyes. He was _sad_.

She looks up. He doesn't look down; he is rather in a trance. She lost it. She _just_ lost it. She lost the whole conversation. Sherlock is staring over her head. His hand drops off her waist; he is stiff and business-like all of a sudden.

"She is coming down the stairs," he murmurs. He abruptly lets go of the dancing. The high functioning sociopath is _back_. And her party is over.

Molly makes a slight stealthy turn of head and tries to catch the woman's glimpse from the corner of her eye. Eventually she finds her, in a strappy cocktail dress, pushing past the dancing crowd towards the bar. The prosthetic bump is rather obvious to her pathologist eyes, especially now that Sherlock has mentioned it. The woman orders a drink; she is throwing fleeting glances in the crowd, as if searching for somebody familiar. The dance floor is now full, so the woman barely notices Molly gaping at her with a wide-eyed transfixed stare.

"As soon as she leaves for her room, we will follow her," Sherlock instructs her, "But before that, Molly, will you wait here for ten minutes?"

* * *

It takes Sherlock fifteen - no, twenty minutes to return from what apparently wasn't a loo break. Molly spends the time keeping a suspicious eye on the woman, a bit too obviously though - so much so that midway through the woman met her eye and she was forced to look at an entirely different direction for the rest of the while.

"Where'd you gone?" Molly leaps out of the chair at the extreme corner of the hall as soon as Sherlock arrives, "The woman just went back to her room – I couldn't just follow her on my own –"

"To switch off CCTV. Got to take care of these little details. The last thing I want is to land in a court case for trespassing."

"It'll be for a noble purpose though," says Molly. Sherlock smirks and Molly knows why_. Noble_ is a very heavy-sounding word for what they are doing.

"That is if the woman turns out guilty. We don't know _yet_."

They trot up to the staircase. While Molly is paranoid, looking around to see if somebody's watching and coming to a dead halt every time a person walks down the stairs, Sherlock is as relaxed as if he owns the staircase, his face neutral, even forgetting on and off he has tagged Molly along in this escapade. Soon Molly gives up with her antics, realizing she is only catching the attention she is trying to evade, and trails Sherlock quietly. Meanwhile they get into the elevator.

"Sherlock, wasn't there any security guy in the CCTV room?" asks Molly as the thought snaps in her mind with the closing doors of the elevator.

"Sure there was. But he fainted as soon as I entered."

Molly raises an eyebrow. Sherlock pulls out from his coat what looks like a small can of deodorant.

She looks on, befuddled. "And this is ...?"

"Chloroform. Handier than a gun," Sherlock says with a grin so devilish that it's almost alarming.

"Don't tell me you'd have otherwise used a gun."

"Of course, not. I do have a sense of self righteousness."

"Yes. Sure," Molly says dismissively, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Sherlock and self-righteous don't go together in the same sentence.

"We're almost there. C'mon."

* * *

They are at the woman's door. Mahogany brown, with an embellished gold number plate - 467 - the woman' room number, or so Sherlock has noted after comfortably laying the unconscious security guy under the table of the now-locked CCTV room. Molly bites her lip in apprehension. She stares up at Sherlock, who gives her a ghost of a smirk, turns forth and rings the doorbell. Her heart is throbbing. All they are about to have is a little chit-chat, aren't they?

"Who is it?"

"Ma'am, we have to talk about some payments before you check out of this hotel."

Hesitantly, the door is opened. Sherlock pushes his way through. Molly follows suit.

"Thank you," Sherlock clears his throat as he walks in with his typical swagger, "Miss Tatou, or Mrs. Gordon, but it doesn't matter, because neither of them is your real name. Please do sit down. We have a lot to talk about."

Molly stays near the door. As awkward as it can be, she feels now like a second-hand replacement of John Watson. Anyway, she decides not to have a say – which is rather wise – even as her gaze oscillates between Sherlock and the Tatou woman, who looks at the detective as though she has just seen a snake in her room.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she does a jerky laugh, the tension obvious no matter how hard she tries to conceal, "I've been expecting you."

"Oh, were you?" he sneers, "You were waiting for someone tonight, didn't you? Apparently, your guest got murdered."

"Not a surprise either," she speaks, her voice cold and mechanical, while traversing through the room as if she is searching for something, and comes to a dead pause against the dressing table. In fact, she is so close to the door that Molly unconsciously jumps forth to block the path lest she tries to escape.

"And do you have a psychic reason?"

"I _murdered_ him," the woman adds, simultaneously typing into her phone, "I planted the invitation for you. Only somebody like you would take circumstantial evidence and use it to gatecrash a party." The information came at the speed of a bullet, perhaps too fast for even Sherlock to handle. Molly is rather aghast. Although a liar, the woman looked so particularly _harmless_ in the beginning.

"You murdered him," Sherlock doesn't let it show, "_Why_?"

"Oh, I'll tell you because it's absolutely your business," she snarls.

"Why use the bottle of pills? Why leave Carl Powers' shoe? What – is – your – connection with James Moriarty?" Sherlock sounds so agitated that he rambles his questions in top speed. Molly gulps down; the room has heated up with this argument.

"James Moriarty? He's a dead man," the woman is plain serene one moment and maniacal in the next, "_You killed him_!"

"He killed himself, mind you. Tell me, what is your purpose_, here_?!" He almost screams the last word.

"Look," the Tatou woman raises her arms in mock surrender, "I'm no boss. I'm just a player in the big picture. I just wanted you to come here tonight because somebody wanted to meet you."

"Who?"

"He cancelled. But it doesn't matter, now that you've arrived," she smirks, "I know _exactly_ how to treat my guests."

Without warning, the woman pulls out a gun from the drawer she was fiddling with. Sherlock has also yanked his own gun out in the meantime, but it's too late – she is way too close to Molly and grabs her by hair the next split-second, shoving the gun to her neck. It happens in a blur – Molly tries to wrestle free as the woman's arm goes round her neck like a steel rim. It's in vain; the woman is too strong. During the struggle the woman's prosthetic bump falls off, but she doesn't care anymore about her little white lie coming to surface now that she has a gun.

"So, Mr. Holmes how about a cup of tea after your pretty little assistant drops dead?" the woman seethes, pushing the gun further under Molly's ear. Molly's throat goes dry; the woman indeed means business.

"When I said talk, I didn't mean a brawl," Sherlock utters in monotone, pointing his gun at the woman, beads of sweat dotting up his forehead.

"Ah, but that's my style. Now, drop the gun!"

Sherlock hesitates. The woman puts her finger on the trigger. Molly wriggles under her grip. Her temple is throbbing so hard that the noises around have blurred out. So _this_ is it. That's why she was having recurrent doubts about coming here – maybe as some sort of an intuition. She just had one of the best nights of her life only to be dead by the end of it. She tries to look at Sherlock – the woman's grip around her neck is so tight that she can hardly breathe – he doesn't make an eye contact. Her heart sinks again. Only if he had _cared_. Once.

Slowly, as though in surrender, Sherlock throws the gun onto the bed.

"Good. But that doesn't mean I won't kill her," she grins to herself, "I never thought this'll be _so_ easy. On your knees!" She barks at Sherlock, her expression that of an offended criminal who has just found his way out of jail, fierce and furious once again, "Hands behind your head. Now!"

Molly's heart is thumping inside her rib cage like a funeral drum. The touch of the metal gun at her neck sends a number of shivers down her spine. She tries to see whether Sherlock rebels or complies. He has complied, down on the floor as the woman ordered, but his face hasn't. His face is inscrutable, even borderline smiling. As if all of it is a gag and he is one of those never-dependable members of the plan who loses it and laughs hysterically just before the prime moment arrives.

"But ma'am," he says, in a falsely innocent voice, "Your style needs some _conditioning_."

"What do you mean?"

Unpredictable as he is, he rises up and brushes the invisible dirt off his trousers in the most casual fashion, the way people begin to move apart after a play ends. Apparently he is showing off, and Molly knows he won't be showing off that "showily" unless he has gained some major upper hand. The woman is alarmed too; the noose of her arm round Molly's neck becomes so tight that one minute more and Molly will begin to hyperventilate like an asthmatic.

"I meant to say that, next time you threaten somebody, make sure you unlock your gun."

* * *

**Please review. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FOUR

* * *

More than the statement, it's Sherlock's confidence that stumps the woman. If only for a second.

Molly _cannot_ let go of the opportunity. Before the woman can hasten to act, she elbows her in the ribs and breaks out of her clutch. Molly tumbles out of the room and behind the door, using it as a shield. The woman isn't too bad either, she makes a shot immediately. The first one is a miss. The second one, however, pierces the door roughly where Molly's head was, four seconds ago.

No more shots come through the closed door, which means Sherlock has sprung into action too. Molly hears some blurred noise, Sherlock's voice and the sound of some wreckage. When all of a sudden, the fire alarms of the corridor ring out.

Before Molly can figure out another thing, the bullet-lodged door blasts open and woman tramples out of the room, her face reddened with rage. She still has a gun in her hand, and gives Molly a ghost of a glance but doesn't bother to shoot. Barely two seconds later, Sherlock hurtles out of the door too, looking slightly dizzy.

"She's heading to the basement. I think she has got the car keys," Sherlock rambles as he prepares to make the run.

"What's happened –"

"It was a candle. The bed is on fire. I stumbled and she hit me on the head with a hair blower," Sherlock shouts into the air, already on the chase, "You stay here!"

"Careful, she has a gun!" Molly yells, but Sherlock has already made to the elevator and disappeared.

Molly peeks into the empty hotel room. The fire is turning grotesque. The corridor has begun to grow crowded with panicky people pushing their way into the elevator. The authorities aren't in yet. Molly notices Sherlock's gun still lying on the bed, untouched by the flames. Impulsively, she takes a dodgy step to make her way into the wreckage and take out the gun. Mostly two reasons; if the authorities find even the burnt version of the gun, Sherlock will be in trouble. And second, notwithstanding what Sherlock asked her, she is going to the basement, and she needs some fusillade.

The gun has become so hot that she has to juggle it for a few seconds. Swiftly, she walks out of the fire, panting for oxygen. The elevator is completely choked, so she chooses the stairs. It doesn't take much time, they were only four storeys up. The party music has stopped; downstairs, there is a delirium of sorts: nobody knows for sure which part of the building has caught fire.

On the way to the basement she brews up a wise idea to check whether the gun she is holding is _unlocked_ either (which is sort of a sarcastic thought at her own incompetence in such situations). She remembers some gun safety drill happening in her neighbourhood a few years ago, so even if it's all a bit blurry, she is sure she'll get the gun right in three or four tries. She checks. Wow, Sherlock doesn't even bother to lock his gun.

The basement is quiet - hauntingly quiet - in fact so quiet that she doubts now and again whether Sherlock and the Tatou woman have actually ended up here. Her heart throbs suddenly. "Please don't be _dead_, Sherlock," she murmurs, somewhat comically, knowing Sherlock can even deduce the hell out of death itself and send it back, humiliated.

A minute later, Molly hears a deafening gunshot, far down right. A car shield shatters. Sound of footsteps. Molly runs to the spot. Soon she finds Sherlock and the woman.

"Oh my god, _no_."

It seems as if Sherlock has lost track of the woman for a little while and the woman has taken the requisite advantage. He has his back turned, the woman only a few yards behind him, the gun pointed at his head. Molly would've shouted, but that will only do as much as Sherlock taking the bullet to his forehead instead. She has two seconds of time in her hand and she needs to react.

Molly jumps to the scene. It does distract the woman for those few vital seconds (Sherlock turns too on hearing the noise, but there isn't much he can do in this situation), but she gives Molly a smug, indifferent look and keeps the gun pointed at the detective.

"_Don't_." Molly whispers threateningly, her voice trembling and eyes brimming with tears. The woman doesn't bother on worthless warnings and puts her finger on the trigger.

A gun fires. Molly shuts her eyes tight and drops hers to the ground. For a few nano seconds, nobody knows for sure which gun did. The sound of her heart throbbing cancels out every other noise. Only then, the woman, with the ghost of the smirk still etched on her face, topples to the ground, blood leaking out through the hole in her chest.

"Oh, god. Molly."

Molly is shell-shocked. She has suddenly lost the power of speech. For a moment, she can prove she wasn't the one who shot. The pool of blood grows with passing time.

"We have to get out of here," Sherlock walks to and fro, and keeps a keen eye around for any accidental witness.

Molly doesn't move. Her feet feel like they have melted into the concrete. 'Is she – is she dead?" She utters voicelessly, her eyes still glued at the woman's motionless body.

"Molly, are you _listening_ to me?" He angrily clasps her hand and guides her shaken, dazed self out of the basement, "Baker Street. Now."

* * *

It is past midnight; somewhere around 1:00 pm. Sherlock pushes open the door, as a shaken-looking Molly follows, drenched and dripping water all over the warm mahogany flooring. Her hair has become an entangled mess, and her kohl has smudged to such an extent that it makes her look like a character dawned straight out of horror movies. Her eyes are bloodshot, almost on the verge of tears, as she walks in and knocks over a toolbox. With her mind already occupied with the horror that happened just a while ago, the loud and rather pinching noise of the tools scattering pulls her out into the stark reality again, even as she lets out a small impulsive shriek.

Mrs. Hudson hurtles out of her room, her eyes groggy from sleep while screwing them together to get a better look at the visitor. She is wearing a bright green night gown and her ruffled hair makes her look like a wine bottle with feathers.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" she asks.

"Not now,Mrs. Hudson."

"But why is Molly –"

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson persists, casting curious but concerned looks at the shaking form of Molly Hooper. She even puts the idea of making them some midnight supper. It is only after Sherlock's continual glares that she withdraws the offer and retreats to her room. There is another minute of uncomfortable silence before Sherlock says, "C'mon, Molly."

Molly makes past the spread up tools and stumbles over the creaky wooden steps, climbing each with unreasonable caution.

"It's fine," Sherlock mouths the same line of comfort for the third time. Molly doesn't reply; just keeps on climbing.

"The place is slightly shoddy," he awkwardly squeezes past her and tries to make some space through the skull, scissors and half-brewed experiments, only scrambling them further. "Do have a seat," he pats on the sofa.

Molly quietly tip-toes through the trash and occupies a humble corner. She doesn't lean back, just sits straight and devastated, her knees touching together. She rubs her face with her palms. Closing eyes doesn't help; it only throws back all the blood like a flash of lightning, and freshens the wounds. She gasps.

"Molly..."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Molly watches Sherlock's eyes flick at her. She hasn't spoken a word since getting into the taxi, and now that she has, her lips tremble; she doesn't know how to, what to speak. She wishes she could've burst out the asphyxiating lump pent up inside her chest. She wishes she could've cried. Let it out. But unfortunately, Sherlock isn't the person who will volunteer to comfort.

"Molly, I - " Sherlock hesitates. Molly knows that Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

"Actually, I don't know what to say," Sherlock voices her thoughts, and surrenders.

"Do you think she'll survive?"

Molly cannot bear the weight of the question. She cannot bear waiting till the morning. The question becomes all the more complicated when she thinks about it : does she, or doesn't she want that woman to survive? If the woman dies, there is a chance she might escape the charge but the burden of committing murder will be lodged on her frail shoulders till death, if she survives, her guilty conscience shall be relieved, but Molly will have to go to prison for the rest of her life.

"Do you want to know the truth?" asks Sherlock.

Molly nods. Her heart beating. Her breath paused.

"According to my experience, I don't think so," he blurts out straight, without a trace of sentiment. "But she is a murderer. She tried to shoot us both unprovoked, which means she must have a bigger criminal history outside my knowledge."

Hardly an excuse, Sherlock, thinks Molly. That small fact is not going to stop this incident from butchering her life into a thousand shreds, from getting notoriety from the public, from even tempting her to _suicide_. Unlike Sherlock, Molly does care about what people think. Because she _has_ to.

Sherlock stares into her eyes, his face intent and trying so hard to be empathic. Molly finally gets the much needed eye-contact, but soon breaks it off on her own, looking away and fixing her gaze at the carpet instead.

"Molly, listen to me."

"I am listening."

Sherlock inhales long and deep before he starts speaking, "Molly, honestly, I do not know how you are feeling right now," his voice is so warm and gentle that it feels like a lullaby to her sleep-deprived mind, "I am not John. I cannot procure nicely embellished words like him to console you, and I'm not trying to either."

Sherlock pauses and waits for a response, since Molly appears to have sunk in her own thought-process, her eyes wide and unblinking. Two minutes pass without a reply, and disappointedly, Sherlock utters again.

"I have killed a man. John has killed a man. Under some circumstances when there seemed no way out. What you did tonight was nothing more or less than an act of a loyal friend. That's how I'll put it. Killing criminals is not an offence; it is karma, Molly. Some of them do deserve to die."

Nobody deserves to die, Sherlock. But Molly never says it aloud.

"– But I know that's an altogether different thing. We are sociopaths and soldiers, used to this kind of what-you-may-call, traumas" his knack of unwittingly offend people pops up now and then in his little speech, "but you..." he sighs and rejects a part of the sentence he was going to speak out loud.

"And so, you'll have to make a promise," he ends incoherently.

Molly looks up. "What promise?"

"I can assure you, Molly Hooper, the details of this incident will never get out. But if in case they do - well, it was I who had pulled the trigger."

"No. _No_!"Molly almost shouts, visibly aghast.

"Yes. Promise me you'll comply with this and never change the story, be it before the police, or court, or the media, or anything."

"Sherlock, you _can't_ do that for me."

"Yes I can. And you promised."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Sherlock," Molly protests and tries to make him see reason, "You cannot do that. It's a murder charge. I don't want to – I don't want to see you serve time, perhaps even get killed, for a crime I committed!"

"You didn't commit a crime. You were only trying to save my life."

"But Sherlock –"

"You saved my life twice. I owe you a lot."

"No, you don't..."

He gives out a sad chuckle. "Trust me, Molly, I won't go to prison for this. I'll figure a way out."

Molly is still unconvinced, eyeing him suspiciously. "Sure you will?"

"Yes."

He smiles. It is sad under the surface, but sincere, unapologetic and all so reassuring. In fact so reassuring, that it leads Molly to a rare moment when she gets over herself, forgets the world around and doesn't wait to think if she will regret this later.

The upsurge of emotion that bursts through her is so, _so_ strong that she throws her arms around Sherlock's neck and digs her face into his shirt. She lets it out at last, not bothering to wonder whether Sherlock will be mocking her – the sobs are uncontrollable and in loud hiccups – and for this one moment, she clutches onto him as if they are standing in a bleak windy ground and may blow apart if she lets go. Only after a while, when the damage has been done, does she realize that Sherlock has been holding onto her too, his chin resting on her head.

The next moment – however – belongs to Sherlock. He lifts up her tear stained face and kisses her. Not on the cheek this time. It is not the most _passionate_ of kisses, it doesn't last more than a bare second, and perhaps it doesn't even mean anything more than a measure to cover up for his lack of sympathetic words - and yet the kiss ripples through her body like electricity.

"I'm sorry," Molly pulls apart rather awkwardly, wiping her tears with some savage haste.

"It's absolutely fine," says Sherlock. But Molly can sense he has withdrawn into his shell again. The gentle, warm baritone is gone; instead there is the cold monotone so typical of the detective.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Molly is, well, a little embarrassed, and Sherlock has already begun fidgeting, so she assumes there cannot be a better moment to change the point of talk. "What were you talking about that day?"

Sherlock feigns some deafness. "Hmm?" It's sort of comical to watch this high functioning sociopath on tenterhooks.

"That day, in the morgue, about Moriarty?"

"Oh that..." Sherlock commits to some more play-acting, as if he is trying to recollect (Sherlock Holmes _never_ forgets anything), and makes a face like he is about to catch a fly in the air. "It was, well, I don't know how to put it. I wanted to tell you that if Moriarty is really out there, you might be in some danger."

"It's okay, I'm aware of that."

"Being aware doesn't make you safer. It is my doing. I have put you to this. And I just put you to this again." His tone changes abruptly, and it as well annoys Molly. No matter what, Sherlock has to, _has to_ revert to this extremely uncomfortable subject, she grits her teeth, with his newly-born guilty conscience. When the hell did Sherlock Holmes develop a guilty conscience?

"No, really, it's fine. I knew him, you know, he wasn't _that_ bad of a guy," she ends with a smirk.

He laughs. "Oh really?"

"Yes, after all I ditched him..."

"Sure you did."

"But not before I introduced him to my cat and made him watch _Glee_."

* * *

On way to home from work the next day, Molly wishes if she had taken a bullet that night instead.

The day was terrible. It began with the news of the woman's death.

Something was eating her from inside the whole time. Her fingers trembled with the scalpel, her heart thumped at a furious rate with every fresh corpse coming in. Every now and then, she hallucinated blood on her hands. She scared off two colleagues with a sudden scream. If that was not enough, at the end of the day, she had to examine the woman's body all by herself.

But these are just _details_. The problem is, she is finding it hard to live with herself and to imagine the extent of damage she has caused, and dreads the consequences if Sherlock falls in trouble because of a bloody promise.

The consequence of the promise. That is her biggest fear. Her paranoia.

Molly Hooper wasn't supposed to be what she is now. She is supposed to be a specialist registrar researching at Bart's, a simple young woman, an offspring of a meek unassuming family from London. She was supposed to be that lonely woman living in a relatively big flat with her cat, who had often been trampled on and taken advantage of by her "friends", friends who have joined the big league while she remains to be a mere pathologist. She was supposed to be that lady at the corner table of Bart's canteen, whose romantic relationships never work out. She was supposed to be this bumbling, clumsy girl with a crush on a tall, handsome, mysterious detective.

But she was never supposed to be a _murderer_. She lets out a deep breath as she stands before her second floor flat door.

As soon as Molly unlocks the door, the state of the room hits her like a massive gut-punch. She is stunned for a few seconds. The whole room is in sixes and sevens - the clothes are hurled out of the wardrobe and scattered on the bed, the crockery and porcelain is smashed, the books are torn and strewn indiscriminately across the floor.

Molly panics. She dashes towards the drawers to check for the cash and the expensive jewellery and the documents that matter. They are all hidden and huddled in a corner, safe and untouched. This is a slight bit confusing. It looks like a break-in but apparently she cannot find anything stolen. More like, somebody has ravaged through her flat simply for fun.

Her first instinct is to call Sherlock, but then she has already bestowed him with the trouble of a lifetime. The next and a considerably better idea is calling the Emergency, but before she can do either, the phone rings on its own.

Molly fishes into the bag for the ringing phone. At last she finds it. It's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hello Molly!" comes a very excited voice from the other end. There is also some slight music playing in the background. Molly cannot figure out whether the voice is male or female; it seems on a fine line in between, and unfamiliar at the same.

"Sorry, who is it?"

"Oh, that's a far cry. Let's just talk about _you_."

"What do you mean? Who the _hell_ is this?"

"My identity isn't that important. Yours is."

"I'm cutting this off, whoever you are –"

"No, wait wait wait –" the person is grinning for a reason unknown. He lowers the volume of the music before he speaks again. She assumes it's a "he" since something makes her sense the odds are greater. "Only last night I got to know a teeny weeny secret about Molly Hooper."

Molly's insides churn. The next second she feels she doesn't have any insides at all. "Who is it?" She shouts desperately, and throws a random stone in the dark, "Is it Moriarty?"

"Why, is Moriarty the only guy who can have some fun?"

So the person knows about Moriarty. Her throat dries up. "What do you want?"

"Sad little Molly Hooper, with a dirty black secret, weeping in a corner –"

"What – do – you – want?"

"Sad little Molly Hooper, with _red_ on her hands, rotting in prison –"

"You cannot blackmail me –"

"But it seems I can."

"What the hell do you want?!" she screams over the phone, her voice jerky in fear. Her hand is trembling so violently that the phone might drop anytime to the floor, "_Please_ tell me." She begs.

"I want you," the voice abruptly ditches its cartoonish operatic tone and turns very, very sinister, "I want you to kill Sherlock Holmes."

"That doesn't make sense. That is not going to happen." She takes him as one of those regular maniacs with a vendetta against the detective. "You cannot even prove it. Why would I even need to?"

"I thought you're smart enough to know what I'm talking about."

"I _know _you're talking about."

"I doubt it."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"Well, Miss Hooper, the conversation is turning rather meaningless," the person snarls, "Let me rephrase it. I will make sure you kill Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**Okay this happened quite fast. Huehuehue... :D Mentioning again, fourth chapter was reworked and its ending was changed , because of which I uploaded the chapter twice. Just in case you didn't know.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Umm, a part of the story that happens chronologically before and I mistakenly left out.**

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

* * *

There is a reluctant knock at the door.

"Come in," says Sherlock, trying to rub off the stains of the chemical he has mistakenly spilled, but it's in vain as they have already eaten through the wooden table.

It is Mycroft, in his usual, obsessively formal attire and the long, ancient, aristocratic umbrella. His balding head shines with sweat; he has put a rest to his ever-narcissist I- am-better-off-than-everybody-else expression and looks at his younger brother with a little curious and mostly blank gaze.

"What have you called me in for?" he demands, throwing scathing glances across the room as he walks in, "Surely you realise I had a meeting with some agency, with their conundrums and all. It's stuff you won't understand."

"And surely you cancelled it to have a brotherly reunion."

"A brotherly reunion upon your immediate call where we shall discuss the most extreme trivialities of your life. Yes, surely I did. May God help me."

An exchange of murderous stares follows, and after the critical moment passes, Mycroft breaks the deadlock and asks, "So what is it? Did you open a drugs cartel?"

"No," Sherlock decides not to shoot back on his sarcastic comment for one rare time. Instead, he leans over and passes him the newspaper. "Top left corner."

"I know what's printed there," Mycroft never bothers to so much as glance at it. "American female tourist shot down in the basement after her hotel room caught fire. Mysterious indeed."

"Not so much if you think about it."

"What do you mean?"

"The obvious."

"_Jesus_, Sherlock. What have you done?"

Sherlock remains silent, abandons the cleaning and gazes out of the window. The sky is bright blue, cottony clouds interspersed with grumbling grey ones. Potential rain is evident. He sighs, and then murmurs, as quietly as possible, but loud enough to remain audible. "I need help."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me clearly. I am not going to repeat."

"Alright then," Mycroft sneers, and sways his umbrella like he belongs to a musical before turning his back, "Fare you well, dear brother."

"Mycroft. _Please_."

"Then tell me about it."

"I went to investigate," Sherlock tells under his breath, "However things didn't turn out they way I had predicted."

Mycroft gives him a gravely dispassionate look. Sherlock finally turns about to face him; an undercurrent of apprehension flows between them, turning them to stone for a second or two. No love lost there, precisely.

"Taking the law in your hands is a dangerous affair. I am so disappointed in you, Sherlock. Somebody saved you last time, but now..."

"How you automatically assumed I murdered this American so-called tourist."

"Well, didn't you?"

Sherlock looks lost, with an impenetrable expression to make sure no one can read his mind. He closes his eyes in some sort of meditation, then replies, "Yes, I did."

"May God help you then."

"I am an atheist."

"Come to the point, Sherlock. What is that I can do here?"

"The woman knew something about Moriarty. Tried to kill us unprovoked. She could've provided a clue to the criminal network that I probably missed disentangling."

"Us? So John Watson knows?"

"It was Molly Hooper."

"Molly Hooper witnessed the whole incident?"

"But she won't be called for questioning."

"Why?"

"Because you would've asked the Scotland Yard to stop investigating the case, since it is the matter of the intelligence now that it has come to light that the woman was a suspected and admittedly dangerous criminal."

Mycroft shakes his head, his arms folded. "Why shall I commit the crime of lying?"

"I cannot see the lies involved."

"A suspected criminal?"

"She came to me with an invented case of missing husband who is a doppelganger of an infamous terrorist. On top of it, she faked a pregnancy to avoid suspicion."

Mycroft hooks his umbrella to a chair, pats his forehead with a handkerchief and gets seated. Then puts up an intimidating, sardonic smile and says, "Does that make it perfectly okay for you to commit murder?"

"Yes, if my acquaintance is at an irrevocable gun point position." Sherlock assumes swapping positions in the story is a better idea than inventing altogether new details. Mycroft's sarcasm sags and he exhales, rubbing his chin in deep thought. Sherlock thinks his reasoning was innocuous enough to put his older brother to action, and so he remains at the corner of the room, standing quietly, toying with a pen and occasionally glimpsing out of the window while Mycroft makes a decision.

"Alright," he sighs at his gold-plated watch, "I will try." Almost immediately he gets up to his feet to traverse his way out of the small room, his umbrella knocking the wooden floor now and then.

"You mean it?"

"Well, don't _you_?"

Sherlock doesn't reply, and Mycroft doesn't insist anymore. However, he halts again when he reaches the doorway. Sherlock looks at him; Mycroft appears more shaken than he will admit, beads of sweat dotting up his balding head that may soon compel him to take out his showy handkerchief again. Sherlock returns a colder look and Mycroft changes into the more neutral, intimidating figure he has always been.

"This parasite of sentiment is growing on you, Sherlock. It will one day throw you into a deep abyss. Dark and irreversible. Listen to me. Abandon ship."

* * *

"Did Sherlock tell you?"

John ponders for a while over Molly's question. The rain is thrashing against the window pane, as droplets splatter across the corner table they have occupied in a regular cafe, two blocks away from Bart's. John senses a sandstorm going through his head. The case has worked up like a jigsaw puzzle and the world is preparing to fall apart. He wishes he could've left his family in some safe, hidden nook far, far away from Baker Street.

Molly appears a bit concerned about Sherlock – well, who isn't. She has puffy, sleep-deprived eyes, a tight ponytail that has stretched up the skin at her forehead so much that John can notice a blue vein crawling up her temple. Her lips are dry even as she smacks them after a sip of coffee.

"Well," John utters, "Yes and no."

"Okay?" She expects him to elaborate.

"I don't know, but maybe he made a lot of stuff up."

"I didn't think he was a good liar either."

"But he once used to be Mr. Expert Fake Tears And Lumpy Voice," John remarks, reminiscing a certain episode inside a detached tube compartment underground a few months ago.

"So what did he tell you?"

John takes her through the episode. He tells her Sherlock's version – fully detailed and with nuances, and steers clear of inventing any extra sense of adventure (something that certainly won't work with somebody who witnessed it with her own eyes). Molly is initially a bit calm, slightly jumpy a little later, and completely white by the end. John marks the end of the speech by munching into his nachos, she regains her original calm and says, "I'm afraid most of it is true."

"You mean, the woman – the pregnant lady – was an agent of Moriarty?"

"That's hard to say for sure. All I remember is the woman grew pretty hysterical upon hearing Moriarty's name."

"But still, Molly," John persists, "Doesn't it sound like a distant idea?"

"You know what I think? Based on what I've seen and heard from Sherlock, it seems like some sort of gang – or terror group – or something – is attempting some organised crime and putting Moriarty as the face of their propaganda."

"Exactly," John thumps his fist on the table in agreement, "That's exactly what I said. But seriously, who'd tell Sherlock, he's completely obsessed."

"However, John, that's not what I'd asked you to meet for."

John stops his rant midway, and waits. He feels a slight tug in his heart - a despising one - what has Sherlock done this time around? He cannot help his mind stumbling into the unimaginable territory even as Molly readies to speak (she looks so sickly white, like she's about to break some cancer news, adding to his suspicions). She takes one last sip of coffee.

"John," she sighs, clenching her fists and scrunching up her face like she is to reveal either a shattering secret or a painful cry, "That lady wasn't killed by Sherlock. It was _me_."

"_What_?" John is flabbergasted, "How? What'd happened?"

Molly throws stealthy glances around for any signs of eavesdropping. The cafe is almost empty but for a few here and there, most of them disinterested and out of earshot. With a shivering voice, she recites her version of the story, including their conversation at Baker Street. John senses her apprehension, and it is well for good reason - the matter is pretty serious.

"Believe me, John" Molly sounds near to sobbing, "I never meant to kill her. I had no way out. I didn't know how else to save Sherlock - but it was my fault, I had to hit her somewhere lower if I had to hit at all - "

"Molly, Molly, calm down," John insists, grasping her cold fingers to comfort, "And Sherlock took the blame?" All this time he thought, albeit uncomfortably, the infamous sociopath has just killed another.

"Yes he did."

"I don't think there'll be much trouble then. He's bloody Sherlock Holmes after all. He knows how to get things done. As for that woman..."

"But _why_, John," asks Molly, "Why will he do something like that for me?"

At first it seems like a rhetorical question, but soon he realises Molly is asking genuinely. And even John is not sure what the exact answer can be. He knows about Sherlock's newly-born soft corner for Molly, but does it end there? John knows that Molly has grown a thick skin when around Sherlock, despite the fact that she loves him, and considers seventy-five percent of whatever that tumbles out of Sherlock's mouth as an insult. Perhaps she finds Sherlock's little big favour a bit daunting in the face of it?

John watches Molly. She is looking at him with such intensity. She is so sure Sherlock's best friend knows. John lets out a deep, warm breath. Who is he to comment over the ever-changing equation of Sherlock and Molly? Who is he to guess why Sherlock took those slaps at the lab without complaining? Who knows what is going on inside the intricate workings of the detective's mind? Who is he to say that Sherlock's gesture is perhaps a vague sign that perhaps he has fallen in _love_ with Molly?

Or who can predict, what if the whole thing turns out to be a farce, like with Janine? Romantic side of Sherlock Holmes, doesn't it sound like a joke? But so was the human side of Sherlock Holmes, and after so many years John has come to know it isn't one. Sherlock can _die_ for his friends, and yet he claims to be a sociopath. Maybe Sherlock's romantic side is like his human side – understated and underrated, something he _never_ acknowledges of. Maybe that's how it is with Molly too – not sugar-coated and saccharine sweet as with Janine.

But he doesn't take a risk. It is better to keep the matters of Sherlock's heart a secret from the unaware Molly.

"I don't know," he answers, "Who knows what goes inside that funny ol' head?"

"Yeah," she nods in agreement, "Who knows. It's just that I don't want anything to happen to him because of me. Don't tell him, by the way, I promise it'll be a secret."

"Yes alright. I won't."

"There was another thing though."

"Yes?"

"I got a mysterious call." Molly furrows her eyebrows together, deep in thought. She is visibly troubled, or that's what John observes, "The guy claims to know about what happened that night."

"So did he?"

"I don't know," she mumbles, "the person wasn't exactly _listening_ to me."

"It does sound as if it's complicating some already complicated stuff but..."

"Leave it, John," she interrupts rather coolly, "It must be some weirdo maniac. It sounded like one."

"Can't agree with you more," says John, "Lots of weird crap seems to be happening with everybody. Only a week ago I received a couple of unknown texts. Back then I thought it's Sherlock but I never asked him about it."

"Seriously," Molly trails off to a different territory, putting the last of the nachos in her mouth, "How's Mary?"

"Yes, she's good - really good I guess," says John before his heart sinks without warning, "I haven't seen her since ages but she told me the baby's doing good and everything's getting on pretty well..."

"With such doom and gloom around, I hope baby Watson comes soon, I can do with some celebrations," giggles Molly, "Can't wait to see big squishy cuddles from Uncle Sherlock."

John bursts out laughing with that certain reminder from his wedding. "Sherlock was about to puke on that telegram."

"I know right! I saw. Ha ha, "Molly guffaws the way only she can, then checks the watch; the urgency spreads on her face like uncovering a new layer of mask. "I better dash. It's 3:00 pm already. See you, John." She hastens to her feet and pushes the chair into the table.

"Molly, one thing..."

"What?" Molly halts in a statuesque posture before turning her head.

John wonders what made him slip that out. It seems he has changed – slightly deviated from actually – his initial decision to keep mum about Sherlock's feelings. "I was – well," he stutters, "I just thought of telling you that – probably Sherlock's gesture wasn't of friendliness at all."

"I know that," she exhales, looking down, "I wonder what he is after."

Oh Jesus. He made it sound all wrong.

"No no no," he makes a clumsy rectification, "I didn't mean that."

"I don't understand, John."

"I mean – I meant to say that – you know, perhaps he cares for you."

"No, he doesn't."

"But really, Molly –"

"John," her soft-sounding words have an air of finality in them that shuts him up for good, "I _know_ he doesn't."

The slightly dejected Molly Hooper walks up to the swinging cafe door and leaves without another word.

* * *

_Come fast_. That's all he has written.

John is at a pub with Lestrade when he receives that text. It spells urgency, not the he's-in-danger types, but the kind as if Sherlock has found the cure for cancer and is about to make an Archimedes jump out of the bath and sprint naked on the streets screaming "Eureka!". John rushes out for a taxi, finds one within five minutes and heads to Baker Street.

It is almost 7:00 pm and the sky is dark and growling. John shields his head from the pitter-patter as he jumps two steps at a time to reach for cover. Speedy's lights throw multi-coloured reflections upon the wet glossy pavement. He pushes open the door and runs up the stairs with his typical thumping steps. What can be a sudden breakthrough at this time of the evening, in a case so murky?

"Okay, what happened" John has jumped the stairs in one long breath which he finally lets go of, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock is sitting crumpled-up on his chair, his chin on his knees and a grumpy, really grumpy expression on his face. Almost like a fourteen year old loner who is fed up of the sheer stupidity of his classmates and has cast himself out of their moronic chattering and yet they continue to pull him in.

"Hi, John."

John becomes white in horror at the utter familiarity of the voice that comes from behind him. He is so shocked that he isn't sure if he turned round or the room spun to face him.

"Mary?"

She is sitting on the couch, grinning ear to ear. Her blonde bob has grown till her shoulders and her baby bump has swollen to its full roundness. She has developed faintly dark circles around her eyes (something that makes John go hysterical as he opens his mouth to complain, but given his dumbfounded state about her sudden apparition, he doesn't so much as breathe). Somewhat enjoying the face John has made, she crosses her legs and says happily, "Happy birthday."

John knows he is secretly ecstatic to see her, but right now isn't the moment for jubilations. After all, he had plans of hiding his family in some sort of a nook. They have no right to pop out of it on their own.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I've come for your birthday. I was getting bored back there anyway – and then there was a glitch in the flight so I came up three hours tardy. But doesn't matter –"

"What _exactly_ are you doing here, Mary?"

"Your birthday, John."

"Oh, it's a bit of a blur. I don't quite remember if forty three years ago I saw the light of the world first time on this day – remind me again, what are you doing here?"

"– And I was on a case," interrupts Sherlock, justifying his grumpiness.

"You're sexy when you're mad," Mary laughs at John.

"Mary, why don't you understand? I told you over the phone. It's dangerous."

"I have it under control, John."

"Oh, do you?"

"– And I was on a case."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Seriously, shut up, Sherlock."

"Does nobody care? I was on a case," Sherlock shoots again, "Celebrations at my house? Blasphemy."

"Well, it's your best friend's birthday," Mary tells him off, "England won't fall if you're not on a case for one night."

"Wait, what celebrations?" asks John.

"Birthday celebrations."

"You mean – with balloons and cakes," John utters in comical disbelief even as Mary guffaws at him, "Do I look like a twelve-year-old?"

"No. Stop freaking out and calm down, Johnny."

"_Johnny?!_"

"Yes. Now calm down."

John fumes soundlessly for another minute before he thumps over the couch and begins examining Mary's progress. "Can't you take a day off, doctor?" she groans, even slightly mutinous, but as John glares she finally submits and lets him do whatever he wants.

"Who else was on this plan?"

"Nobody really," Mary yawns oh-so-casually, "I planned it out during the long passenger loading and unloading zone wait. I was supposed to be at our apartment but then I thought this place is way comfier and clumsier ..."

"– And I was on a case," Sherlock announces yet again.

"Oh you boys, _behave_," she cries out in mock-exasperation, "It's not like I'm gonna cook you both and serve you for dinner!"

* * *

"I invited Molly."

Only half an hour later when John has already squeezed out of her every little detail about her daily life and routines at Birmingham and Sherlock has already made forty two different excuses to be excused out of the house, Mary lets out this _little_ titbit.

"You did what?" Sherlock is so alarmed that looking at him John fights hard to keep a straight face.

"Invited Molly. Well I invited Mrs. Hudson too but then she said she's had a bad hip day and will be off to bed early so – wait, why are you looking so, I don't know, _scared_?"

"_Scared_?" Sherlock laughs it off nervously, "Hardly a reason to be." John snorts with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but then trails into a phase of showy coughing. Sherlock hardly realises it, but Mary's face is reasonably smug for John to go snorting again.

Soon there is a knock at the door and from there erupts Molly Hooper, wearing the same floral shirt in which she met John in the cafe earlier and easy going trousers below. Both hands are full of packets - which look like restaurant food to John from the distance.

She smiles at Mary, then at John who blinks and assures her he hasn't spilled a word of their talk to anyone. Finally her eyes fall and linger upon Sherlock, who doesn't look up and play-acts to be busy with his skull, and ends it with a deliberately small-voiced, disinterested "Hello Molly."

Molly ignores his jerk-isms with the most badass eye roll possible (much to John's pleasure), keeps the food on the dining table and slumps beside Mary. She excitedly puts her hand on Mary's bump, "How's the baby?"

"Baby's doing great. I might need some help from you Molly, I was thinking along Cressida –"

"Eww, nope," John interrupts.

"Shut up, Watson," Mary glares, "It's easier said than done – oh by the way, Molly, did you bring the DVDs?"

"Yeah, I..." Molly trails off and begins fishing into her handbag, "I luckily found the new lot. Haven't watched any of them."

"What do you wanna watch, birthday man?"

John is visibly embarrassed about being the centre of attention. "Oh, anything_. Anything_," he replies, bordering on sarcasm.

"I wanted to watch that new Star Trek movie," laughs Mary, "the one that just came out."

"Mary, it didn't _jussst_ come out," Molly rectifies, a little too harshly than expected, patches of bright pink falling on her cheeks, "It was in May 2, 2013. Way back."

"Well, wow," she remarks.

"What?"

"You seem quite a bit of a Trekkie, right?"

"Yeah. Actually no, it's just that guy."

"Captain Kirk?"

"Khan. Sorry – forget what I just said – it's John Harrison – _oh crap_."

"Great," Mary groans dismissively, "You spoilt it big time 'cos of that guy – what's his name – yeah, Cumberbatch. Oh_, Molly_."

"It wasn't much of a secret really," Molly tries to reason in vain that the damage wasn't much of a damage, "Almost everybody on earth knew whom Ben's gonna play –"

"Hey, I've seen that Cumber-dude on telly," John grins at his sudden moment of discovery, "Isn't he the one with a strange face –"

"He doesn't have a strange face!" Molly declares war, the pink patches on her cheek brighter than ever.

"I don't know, but he does have an eerie resemblance to Sherlock," adds John in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Somebody spoke out anything relevant?" Sherlock looks up from his skull upon hearing his name, popping out of the deep dimensions of his mind palace to the surface of supposed stupidity and boredom called reality. Or perhaps he has just kept the other three in the room on semi permanent mute.

"Does he?" Molly gives a shaky smile, bypassing pink to a deep shade of magenta, "I never noticed." John knows he doesn't need to go beyond remembering Molly's ex-boyfriend to guess the amount of truth involved in the statement.

"Let's just watch the movie alright," he says, somewhat smirking, "Sherlock, you care to join?"

* * *

**My college has started and I've loads of work to do. I have to travel 30 miles everyday and I wrote under some midnight dementia, if there exists a disease as such. I tried with some self-referential gags and a little fun (for maybe the first time ever, coz I am the sad sack storyteller). That's all I could manage for the time being. I'd love (and need) reviews for this first time attempt. Reviews are love!**

**Thanks for all those readers (and awesome writers) who review my story. This is the coolest fandom ever! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

* * *

Death stood at the door. It isn't just symbolic, it is almost a hallucinatory figure - it is tall and slim, almost touching the ceiling, bending from the waist and shoulders sprawling slightly like a tree, like a giant man - or a man's shadow rather - with dishevelled hair and a wide, creepy smile. Death puts his cold fingertip on her spine and sends down chills. She sweats and she shudders.

She watches the gun lying on the floor. It is wet and glossy, glistening with the blood that her hands are smeared of. She shudders again. It sets her thinking. The gun is terrifying yet tempting. It began her ordeal and can end it.

"I will go whichever way you tell me," whispers Death. He puts a step ahead and makes a slight turn.

She gasps, and squirms back into the corner. Her heart throbs like a funeral drum. It is pitch-black, but Death is darker than darkness. The figure puts another step ahead. His smile gets creepier.

"You have a deliciously dark mind, Molly. I never knew. Tell me, which way do I go? It's going to be either _him_ or you."

Molly tries to speak - or scream, maybe whisper - but her voice doesn't cooperate. Death slithers ahead and peeks out of the window. It is the window to the other room. His room. She slaps herself awake. The shadow persists. She doesn't need to convince herself it is just a projection of her conscience. She never did believe in the Grim. Neither did Sherlock, of course.

But perhaps, this doesn't need to be real. Perhaps this is nothing but eerily symbolic. Not just of her guilt, but of what is to come. Perhaps it all lay in her hands. One secret. And one move to spill it.

She has no qualms about giving her life for Sherlock. It isn't that hard. But is it all that easy?

* * *

She wakes up with a snap. It is a cold, dew-kissed morning; the window panes are dotted with rain and the sky is still dark. It can't be any later than 3 o' clock. She ought to go back to sleep, but is too scared. After all, what she saw isn't a dream at all - it is an impending choice that will sooner or later fall onto her shoulders, and crush them.

Molly looks around the room, her eyes stalling at the number of long coats hung at the back of the door. It has been a year that she is living with denial, dissing her big fat crush. It was indeed a big fat crush, and then infatuation, the kind that teenage girls have on celebrities. She was so sure she never loved him. She sought to move on, interact with other men. Other men who appreciated her.

Maybe she is sure, even now. But now there is something else into the equation. And she can't deny it. They had both saved each other. She probably owes Sherlock more than he does. She sees him. And inside the shell of a cold, logical, selfish prick, she knows Sherlock sees her back.

She wraps herself in a sheet and decides to take a stroll towards the living room. The light is dim, and she almost gasps as soon as she unknowingly crunches a beer can under her feet, the sound of which makes a certain tall figure sitting in his regular chair, turn.

"Molly."

"Sherlock. Why're you awake?"

"Presumably the same reasons as yours."

"I really doubt that."

"Have a seat."

Molly scrapes away an inch of the mess from last night and somehow adjusts there, on the sofa. The morning is indeed chillier than she thought. There is no sign of the sun, and the room is damp with rainy moisture.

"So. Molly."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

She gazes at the grey gloss of his eyes under the faint blue moonlight, and his particular knack of not making a contact.

"What happened to that – that –"

"The police have been investigating."

Molly holds her breath. "_And_?"

"And they have been fairly unsuccessful in deducing our presence in the crime scene yet."

"Did you give them any lead?"

"I haven't been called yet."

"Then how d'you – um, never mind. Okay." She smiles unsteadily.

"My brother has promised to intervene into the scenario, apparently," he says, his displeasure as audible as a gurgle in the throat.

"I am such a coward, Sherlock."

"Some obvious contradiction to my perspective, but still, how would you deduce that?"

She goes blank. Now that she has given up the prologue, she has to complete the story. She opens her mouth as she can feel a rant almost bursting at its seams – about what has happened and what was still to happen, about whom she has transformed into, about the fact that she must be weak at heart for she couldn't take the matter as straight and simply as Sherlock did. She sighs. "Nothing."

"Look, Molly. If you have a question, or a qualm, or anything, you can ask. You deserve to."

"It's okay, Sherlock. I've been losing out on a lot of things that I deserved. It's something of a habit now."

"Hmm. I understand. Although I don't. Not really."

Molly gets to her feet with a small chuckle, "No reason you would. Well, it's too early for morning tea. I'm off to sleep again."

She has almost raked across the mess till the dining table, when Sherlock speaks up in a small inquisitive voice, louder than a whisper but softer than normal talk. "If you don't mind me asking, Molly, and it's purely out of curiosity..."

"Yes?"

"What put an end to your engagement?"

She laughs again, though her heart aches. Separations are always painful. "Oh, you'd know."

"Hmm?"

"C'mon _detective_, it isn't a hard deduction."

* * *

It is 7 o' clock and Lestrade is up with a big baffling case. He drives his personal car to Baker Street, since he was a little unsure about sirening through the road this early in the morning. He halts his car in front of 221B, peeking out of his window. Just as he steps out, he bumps into Molly Hooper, who, in his opinion, appears out of thin air and is probably in slight hurry.

"Hey, Molly!"

"Oh, hello, Greg," she suddenly notices.

"Up this early in the morning, eh?"

"Yes, I had stayed over actually. John's birthday, you know, his wife Mary called me up. It wasn't really planned and all."

Lestrade looks at her. It does seem so. She seems tired and sleep-driven, her hair somehow tied into a ponytail even as awkward strands poked out. But she has her disarming smile.

"So, er," starts Lestrade, his stomach slightly leaping, "you'll be off to home now? I just had a minute talk with Sherlock, so maybe after that I could've dropped you."

"Well, I thought I'd be off to Bart's directly. Hard times, you know. Or maybe I'd visit home once, feed my cat and then - I'm not sure, Greg, you won't want the trouble."

"Uh, okay, okay. Whatever you wish, it's up to you."

"Thanks Greg."

"Well then, maybe after work we could catch another movie, you know, I heard they made this nice little thriller about Da Vinci, or something?" He leaves it on a delicately casual note, wondering whether he has gone a step too far.

"Greg, I," she says, a little awkwardly, "I hope our random meetings don't mean anything. I mustn't lead you on."

"Oh, no, no," he laughs, "I never thought anything that way, you know." Though his heart sinks to the bottom.

"I'm not good enough. Not anymore."

"Um, honestly Molly, you could've left that on me to decide -"

Her phone rings. It's almost a jump-scare for her, and the moment she looks at the screen it seems she pales further. Lestrade tries to read, but it is an unsaved number.

"Excuse me," Molly whispers, and walls past him, the phone to her ear. Lestrade turns, watching her straddle along the pavement, fast and unsteady.

Then she abruptly takes a cab and leaves. Lestrade stands watching, slightly bewildered, slightly hurt. Must women be _this_ complicated all the time, he sighs, and moves on to open the door. He looks skywards and finds Sherlock gazing down from the window. Sherlock seems preoccupied; he knows a fresh case is in and wouldn't bother a penny to care where Molly might have run out in a hurry.

* * *

John has a bad hangover the same morning. The drinking was quite light the last night though, just a few pegs if whisky (and horrible dancing to go with). Sherlock, trying so very hard to not exist, had to be pulled in by Mary by the time the makeshift party ended. Soon after that, Molly wanted to leave for her apartment, but at 3 o' clock at night, others didn't perceive it to be an incredibly safe idea. Sherlock decided to be the unsung hero again in this space-crunch problem, subtly and coldly insisting Molly to take his room nightlong, by diving headfirst into the sofa and pretending to fall asleep that very instant. All of this while Mary and John retreated to John's old room.

John, just awake, looks at Mary peacefully sleeping beside him. He stretches and walks out of the room; it is already 10 o' clock in the morning. The sofa is empty, so is Sherlock's room. Safe guessing will be both of them have left for work. Just to be assured, John looks out for his phone, which after much of searching in the mess, is found inside the empty pizza box. He rubs it clean against his trousers, and checks. Twelve missed calls.

"Hell, what happened now?"

Eight from Sherlock and four from Lestrade. There is also a text message.

_Scotland Yard. Fast._

_\- SH_

John makes for the dash. He wonders if he should call Molly once. Is it about that case? Should he take some money with him? Does Sherlock need help in bailing? He wouldn't have called him for that, there's always Mycroft. But then, there's always a higher chance that the pride of the Holmes brothers will take the better of them. In any case, he needs to hurry.

He splashes some water on his face to help him with the hangover, rinses, picks up his jacket and nudges Mary.

"Hmm?" Mary responds sleepily, half-opening her eyes.

"I gotta go out, Mary. Any problem, give Mrs. Hudson a call. Okay?"

"Sure, sure, John, " she whispers, a soft smile on her face as John kisses her forehead.

"Bye now."

He jumps two stairs at once, bumps into one of Mrs. Hudson's antiques but catches it before it can land with a blaring crash. He leaves the house without another sound, and waits on the rain-blotched pavement for a cab. There is still one small debate going inside his head: should he call Molly or not? Should he tell Sherlock he knows the truth? Maybe Molly could help them out, could act as a witness. Or John's one call might land that innocent girl in deep waters.

* * *

The scene at the Scotland Yard Headquarters is, however, unusually usual.

John walks towards Lestrade's cabin. No sight of Sherlock. Honestly John expected to find him inside a lockup cell instead, so the absence comes off as temporary relief. There is a small group of policemen over the corner, either chatting or gathering over the computer table as if the machines are malfunctioning. Lestrade locates him first, and breaks away from the crowd. He looks rather exasperated, and - John isn't sure - scared?

"John, Sherlock asked me to call you, apparently you weren't picking up -"

"Yeah, what's going on? Where's Sherlock?"

"Well I'd be guessing he's off on his own investigating. It's about that woman who to us with a fraud case. She's dead –"

So they are indeed on this one. John's throat dries up.

"– Well, it wasn't our division at first. But then really weird stuff cropped up, and it probably links up to our old favourite Moriarty. "

That's what Molly had said, since they had a conversation with the now-dead woman. But how did the police know? What has Sherlock told and not told them? As much as John trusts Sherlock's genius, he hates the man's tact. John has to be careful not to slip a single random word about the case right now. One mistake, one inconsistency, will bring both Sherlock and Molly sliding into the deep.

"Um, okay?" John responds nervously, hot under the collar, "Is it about how she dies?"

"Well kind of," says Lestrade, "Those big lads told me they found a black paper lotus on the body. I looked into the old records, and there was this case Dimmock handled, well, Sherlock actually – "

"What?" John screws his eyebrows. Black Lotus? Something simply doesn't connect. Weren't Sherlock and Molly...?

"Yeah, there was this Chinese part of Moriarty's network, and this lady was shot down –"

"No, no, I remember the Black Lotus. But –"

"Now this is exactly what Sherlock had predicted," Lestrade exclaims, oblivious to John's blank bewildered face. "Three Moriarty links back to back. And that's not where the connection ends."

"But, Greg, are you sure?"

"Yes, of course," Lestrade assures him, probably wondering why John's being so unusually sceptical, and continues, "Her hotel room was completely charred, but then we find a memory stick. It's burnt and everything so we get some experts extract the info out of it. And it turns out to be a computerised cipher, which when solved, was this."

With saying that, he holds up a piece of paper torn out of his notepad. John, his head still in a state of certain delirium after that shocking inclusion, narrows his eyes to figure through the scribble:

_Project Moriarty/ John 11/ Divine Comedy/Inferno /Canto/ Ninth_

_Circle/ Isaiah/ Hitler/Her_

"Fishy, isn't it?" Lestrade half-smirks.

"Well, apart from the word Moriarty," John scratches his chin, "I can't see much correlation. It seems like a reading list of some church parish. Until Hitler pops up, that is. And this doesn't make sense either."

"Yes. I pretty much thought of the same," Lestrade agrees, his eyes are fixed on a patch of dirt on his shoe, "But a hidden message within a hidden message? You bet that's interesting. What's more interesting, eh? The Intelligence has taken the case."

"So you aren't on it anymore?"

"I think I still am. Why would the government poke its nose? There's something grey in there."

John feels a line of sweat dotting up above his brow. His heart pounds a little faster, even as he clears his throat and resumes talking. "The government is paranoid, especially after the video telecast. Right now, it can even confiscate a dictionary."

"Yes, but you still don't give up on something like this. The killer has to be pounded upon. Bloody screwed up business, got to bust them up."

"Whoa, Greg, what's up with you suddenly, eh, you're beginning to talk like Sherlock," John pats on his arm and laughs a little too loud, trying to make it sound like a throwaway joke, hoping Lestrade joins in. Lestrade does after a while, with a disappointingly short smirk, but John is sure no one can be wholly insulted in being branded as resembling the cleverest man around.

"Talking of the devil," John continues, "Where is he, again?"

"I'd say he's surprisingly clueless," Lestrade laughs this time, "There's been something going on his mind, and he hasn't been telling us a lot about it lately. Odd _bastard_."

* * *

"It's elementary."

"No, it's biblical."

Back at Baker Street, John climbs two stairs at once and pushes open the door to find Mary, sitting left of the couch, sipping at her coffee and frowning at a piece of paper, while Sherlock has already written the message all around, each word on a different sheet and stuck them on the wall. He has his back turned, striking off the sixth word while his coffee lay cold.

"This is quite weird," begins Mary, "A decoded message should directly mean something. There must be a direct frame of reference. The organisations can't go searching about for random words – "

"Frozen."

"Er, you got it?" asks John, declaring his presence.

"Not the whole of it yet. But it's a decent start. Back from the dead, and frozen."

"Um," Mary stares up close at the message again, "I could figure Lazarus out, but the rest..."

"Sherlock," John pulls him over to a corner, "What's going on?"

"What?" Sherlock is bitter about being distracted from work. "We talked about this. And you've just returned from Scotland Yard with full knowledge of the case."

John rolls his eyes through Sherlock's usual tendencies of being a dick. He retorts with some searing sarcasm, "Oh, you talked to me about this? It's only yesterday I found out the _truth_!"

That shut Sherlock up, much to John's surprise. For an awkward while.

"So, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know."

John scoffs. "Are you having trust issues with me, or something?"

"John –"

"Then you tell me right now."

"Okay. What is it that you want to know?"

"For starters, Black Lotus?"

"I wouldn't be too sure. But it appears as if someone has been contaminating crime scenes, or marking them rather, with memoirs of Moriarty. Third one in a row. Now, I would've predicted it's my brother's doing since suggested help in avoiding court case, but that would be somewhat far-fetched."

"So this is Moriarty?"

"I thought so. But this message makes things complicated."

"Like they aren't already..."

"That information is a part of the plan. References. Biblical, most of them, I haven't figured yet. They mean _something_. Very charmingly Moriarty. They _love_ to play."

"... And?"

"This information, or message, or whatever it is, was meant to be known. It adds up to something they want to propagate. Create terror."

"They?"

"Do you remember the killer cabbie? He told me, I am just a man. And they are so much more."

"Which means..."

"There's an army of maniacs out there, about to strike all at once. This is incredible. Incredible," and there comes the wicked, excited glint in Sherlock's eyes, "But then."

"But then what?"

"Collateral damage."

John thinks he knows what Sherlock is talking about. And hence, he slightly stirred, even as Sherlock goes back to where he was. "So, Lazarus."

"Yes. The first few are simple." Sherlock begins what is supposed to be a rant, "Back from the dead. Then you get a step-by-step reference to Dante's _Inferno_, which was honestly stupid, I don't know why they went so elaborate. Google it, John. The ninth circle of traitors. In the _Inferno_, traitors are frozen. Hence, the Satan is frozen and back from the dead."

"And Isaiah brings in Lucifer, yes," adds Mary. John is sure she is pretty ecstatic right now about her new Catholic roots.

"So, Moriarty is the Satan here, right? But, but what about Hitler and Her? I can't see how they can fit in," John seeks to ruin the party, and successfully so, as the room goes back into a state of perpetual limbo.

"Well, any history of Hitler freezing Jews, or um, creating AI like that Scarlet Johansson movie?" He suggests half-jokingly. Mary looks up, shaking her head. Wrong timing, John, she seems to say.

"This is fairly vague, but at least a starter," declares Sherlock, who probably forgot meanwhile that John and Mary exist, his eyes running around the room for his coat instead, "I need to know what had happened to Moriarty's body. Where it was put."

"I thought you knew," remarks John, "weren't you with Molly, faking the records?"

"I was off to Rio de Janeiro the moment I died in public eye. Now, Bart's."

* * *

It is early evening when they reach Bart's. That usual smell of medicine and glossy white tiles can get sickening after a while. Sherlock runs upstairs to the morgue, a few rooms towards right, only to find the steel door shut. He glances at John who has been hurtling after him, even as John shakes his head confusedly. This is slightly unusual.

"Maybe she's in the canteen," John suggests. Sherlock seems to approve.

They race down to the canteen this time. The hall-like space is sparsely filled with blue-clad patients who look up in alarm at the commotion Sherlock makes. There is a dozing accountant at the left corner, and a group of postgraduates chatting by the window. No sign of the expectedly lone female figure with a food tray.

"Er, should I call her?" John tries to pacify Sherlock in case he gets hysterical. But Sherlock isn't as hysterical as he expected. He is rather – frightened.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John takes a second stab at it. Sherlock nods. "Call her". His voice is low and rigid. Without another word, Sherlock leaves for the morgue again.

John calls. Her phone is switched off. His throat goes dry. What can this possibly mean? Wasn't she there with them last night, drunk and laughing? Or must he stop thinking the worst every time, and presume she has taken a sick leave? Maybe she's out cold with flu and doesn't want to be disturbed with phone calls? Any assumption is extremely dangerous to make at this moment.

Meanwhile, they return to the morgue. It is slammed shut as it was. Before John could utter a word about Molly's phone, a grumpy-looking, plumpish man confronts them. Sherlock would have ignored him and moved on, but the man is indeed fat enough to block most of the way. John observes him. He has a white coat and an ID card hanging ostentatiously from the pocket. He looks up from his round black-rimmed spectacles and looks more or less like a plush angry pig.

"Where is Molly Hooper?" Sherlock is rather blunt.

"I must ask you sir, you need to leave immediately. You're creating commotion inside a hospital."

"Yes, strikingly relevant because we're standing beside a room full of dead people."

The man gets redder and contorts his face further.

"John, will you please ask this soon-to-be-diabetic, amateur MD with a perpetual state of alcoholic breath to grapple with his pathetic personal life, to get out of my way? Or to at least gesture me a favour of telling _where – is – Molly – Hooper_?!"

John feels the dire need to intervene lest both of them are thrown out by the security.

"Um, er –"

"I am in charge of the morgue today," the man grumbles at Sherlock, embarrassed, his nostrils flaring, "Miss Hooper resigned this morning. Now. I need you to leave."

* * *

**Hey guys.**

***quietly runs away***


End file.
